


Healing

by 1917farmgirl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Book 8, Community: HPFT, F/M, Fred Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-06-03 04:49:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6597421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1917farmgirl/pseuds/1917farmgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
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  <p>Wars end, but healing takes time and courage, especially in the face of so many changes. Follow beloved characters as they learn that life can and does go on, that family can mean more than blood relations, and that it's okay to love and laugh again.</p>
  <p>2015 Dobby winner at HPFF for Best Post Hogwarts.<br/><i>Banner by .Equus @ TDA.</i></p>
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            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: No Words

**Healing**

By: 1917farmgirl  
Spoilers: Through Deathly Hallows  
Rating: PG  
Author’s Notes:  
First of all, I have to give a HUGE hug and thank you to my amazingly talented beta and adopted big brother, theelderwand! I couldn’t have done this without him! THANKS!  
Secondly, I follow the book version of the Harry Potter universe, not the movie one, with one notable exception. I’ve grown used to the way the characters look on screen so I have sometimes chosen to describe a character based on their look from the movies instead of the books. 

**Prologue: “No Words”**

_“For some moments in life there are no words.”_

_\- David Seltzer, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory_

*****

If someone had told George Weasley just yesterday that it was possible to feel this much pain and still be alive, he would have laughed in their face and called them a liar.

But then again, yesterday he’d been normal, human, whole, complete. Yesterday he’d been George, one half of the incorrigible ‘Fred and George.’ Yesterday he’d never dreamed he could be sitting in the Great Hall keeping watch over the body of his best friend, his brother, his twin, his other half.

Oh, how he wished it was still yesterday.

“George?”

He looked up at the sound of his name. Bill’s tear-stained face floated before him.

“Kreacher’s organized the house-elves and they’re sending up food. Can I bring you anything?” His brother’s eyes were gentle and sad as he spoke.

Mutely, George shook his head.

“’K,” said Bill, and George went back to staring at his twin. He felt Bill’s strong hand rest on his shoulder for a moment, squeezing tightly, and then he was alone with Fred again.

Fred.

Fred was dead.

The thought spiraled through his brain at least a dozen times a minute, but somehow, even though he continued to gaze at Fred’s long form stretched out on the cold, stone floor of the Great Hall, George couldn’t quite comprehend what that phrase meant.

No, scratch that. He knew exactly what that phrase meant – could feel each and every nuance of its meaning stabbing into him like long, jagged daggers. He just kept hoping if he pretended not to understand it might not be true. Ignorance was, after all, bliss.

“Mr. Weasley?”

George sighed as the second person interrupted his thoughts. Couldn’t people bloody well tell he wanted to be left alone? He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes briefly before glancing up. Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts’ Healer, stood before him.

“I’m very sorry to intrude, Mr. Weasley,” she said quietly, gently. George thought she sounded terribly tired, and seeing her torn and bloodstained robes he figured she had a right to. “I need to perform a Wand Sweep for Fred – to declare him officially…dead,” she said apologetically, her voice breaking slightly over the last word. “May I?” she asked, seeking his permission.

Choking back emotion, George raked his fingers through his disheveled hair. He’d known this was coming; had watched Madam Pomfrey and her team of Healers moving closer to his end of the room all night, wands glowing blue as they gently and reverently paid their final homage to the Battle’s fallen. With a deep, shuddering breath, George nodded his consent.

His eyes followed her as she moved passed him and knelt at his twin’s side, but then he looked away, unable to watch the act that would make his worst nightmare an unavoidable reality. He glanced at the room around him instead, noting as he did that morning light was starting to fill the broken windows. 

His family was scattered throughout it, postures and blood-shot expressions voicing their grief even as they fought to maintain their composure and help out. Fleur tended to the wounded in one corner, his father and older brothers helped clear debris in another. His mother sat wearily at one of the long tables, Ginny next to her, head resting on her mother’s shoulder. Grief was etched deeply onto their tired faces.

George scanned the room again, looking for his youngest brother, but came up empty. Harry and Hermione were missing as well. He hoped they’d found somewhere to rest for a while, grieve away from the limelight. He still wasn’t sure of everything the trio had done to make last night’s victory happen, but he figured it had to be worth a few moments of quiet solitude and the chance to break down without it making tomorrow’s headlines.

“Holy Mother of Merlin!”

George jerked around at Madam Pomfrey’s loud and unexpected oath. She was kneeling by his brother, wand outstretched over his still body, its tip glowing bright – _red_? She clutched her heart, as if she’d just received a huge shock, and for several seconds she was frozen, eyes locked with George. Then, suddenly, she flew into motion.

“PHILIP!” she screamed across the room even as she scrambled in her apron pockets for something. “PHILIP!”

One of her orderlies rushed over, white-faced and panting. “Ma’am?” he questioned as George still sat there, frozen in place and unsure what was going on.

“You’re in charge here! I don’t know when I’ll be back!” Madam Pomfrey ordered tersely, still rummaging through her pockets. “Blast, where is it?” She turned and noticed George again. “You, boy, give me your shoe!”

“What?” George muttered stupidly, gaping like a fish.

“Your shoe! NOW! There’s no time to dawdle! We’ve lost enough time as it is!”

Bewildered, George yanked off his filthy shoe and tossed it to her. She caught it deftly and waved her wand over it, uttering the spell to change it into a Portkey. “How could I have missed…” she was mumbling now, even as she went about tucking Fred’s arms across his body and placing his head protectively in her lap. “Should have checked closer…”

“I’ll be at St. Mungo’s!” she snapped at her orderly one last time.

 _St. Mungo’s? Taking Fred_? George’s brain felt like it was slogging through mud, trying to comprehend what was happening. All around him, people had started to notice the commotion taking place in their little corner. Several Weasleys were making a beeline for them, and Madam Pomfrey was gripping Fred’s arm tightly in one hand and George’s shoe in the other when the mud cleared and it hit him.

Without a second thought, George launched himself off his chair at the startled healer and managed to latch a finger onto the shoe in the last moment before the Portkey activated. He heard his mum shout his name, then Fred’s, and then the familiar pull behind his naval jerked him away and the room dissolved around him.


	2. A Little Wounded

**Chapter 1: “A Little Wounded”**

_“I'm a little wounded but I'm not slain; I will lay me down for to bleed awhile, Then I'll rise and fight with you again.”_

\- John Dryden 

*****

As Harry descended from the Headmaster’s office with Ron and Hermione, he decided he would make one more appearance in the Great Hall before slipping off to his cozy four-poster. After everything she’d been through that night, the grief and worry, he owed it to Mrs. Weasley to tell her where he was going before he disappeared. 

“You gonna be okay, mate?” Ron asked as they walked wearily through the halls.

“Yeah – eventually,” replied Harry. They turned a corner and suddenly found themselves in the corridor where the blast had happened, where they’d lost a friend and brother. All three stopped short, breath hitching.

“What about you?” Harry returned softly.

“Yeah – eventually,” echoed Ron, voice thick with grief as he stared around them with overly-bright eyes.

“Come on, let’s go back to the others,” urged Hermione, gently taking each of them by an arm. “They’ll be worried about us.”

Solemnly, they finished the trek to the Great Hall, exhaustion returning in full force with each step. Harry had made up his mind to simply slip in, whisper a word or two to Ron’s mum, and then slip out again when they entered the doors right into a madhouse. 

The place where Fred’s body had lain was teaming with redheads, all yelling loudly at each other, and the body was missing. So was George.

“What’s happened?” he demanded, dashing over as worry clenched in his gut. “Where’s George?”

“And Fred?” added Ron, eyes narrowed.

Everyone ignored them.

“ARTHUR WEASLEY, YOU GET OUT OF MY WAY RIGHT NOW! I’M GOING TO ST. MUNGO’S AND I’D LIKE TO SEE YOU STOP ME!”

“NOT UNTIL YOU CALM DOWN, MOLLY!”

“Mum, we don’t know why they went!” Charlie tried to reason.

“You mustn’t get your hopes up! It was probably part of the Wand Sweep!” argued Bill.

“Then why would George have gone, too?” Ginny demanded, hands planted on her hips as she stood beside her mother. “I’m with Mum; we need to go to St. Mungo’s right now!”

This brought another round of yelling as everyone tried to get their point across at once, even Percy and Fleur joining in. Harry opened his mouth to shout for order but someone beat him to it.

“ENOUGH!” Ron bellowed from beside him, eyes flashing dangerously. Silence fell instantly as they all stared in shock at his friend, who was looking more than a little dangerous. “WHAT IS GOING ON?” he demanded.

Silence hung in the air around them, charged and explosive.

“Madam Pomfrey just took Fred to St. Mungo’s by Portkey,” his father finally explained carefully.

“And George latched on at the last second to follow,” added Charlie.

“St. Mungo’s?” asked Harry, a small burst of hope shooting through him.

“Did she say why?” asked Hermione.

“She didn’t say anything! Just grabbed my babies and left!” Mrs. Weasley seethed. “And I intend to find out why!” Harry was forcefully reminded of a lioness guarding her cubs.

“Molly, dear, of course we need to find out what’s going on,” Mr. Weasley tried to reason again, every bit of his grief and weariness showing in the lines on his tired face, “but we just can’t all rush there and troop inside.”

“Why ever not?” demanded Mrs. Weasley, rounding on her husband. “She took my CHILDREN! I think we have a right –”

Her sentence was cut off abruptly by a dark shape darting in the broken window and swooping down through the middle of them. Nerves still frayed and on edge from the Battle, ten wands were drawn and pointed at it before they realized it was only a brown owl. It flew toward Mrs. Weasley, flung a note at her hands and sped away, apparently highly offended by their welcome.

Mrs. Weasley caught the note and tore it open. She stared at it for a heart-stopping moment and then something Harry was sure he would never, ever see happened. Mrs. Weasley’s face drained of color, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fainted dead away. Mr. Weasley and Bill barely managed to catch her before she hit the floor.

Ginny stared at her mother, eyes wide, then reached out and snatched up the note, reading it out loud.

_Mum, Dad, get to St. Mungo’s right now. Fred’s still alive. – George_

In the absolute chaos that followed, Harry couldn’t help but wonder how he could be crying so hard and so completely happy at the same time.

*****

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry stopped at the foot of the staircase and turned around. Professor McGonagall was striding down the corridor toward him, robes billowing behind her. Self-consciously, Harry ran a hand down his dirty, sweaty clothes and across his filthy face. He hadn’t paid much attention to his appearance in the four days since the Battle as he’d helped remove rubble and debris, and he certainly hadn’t planned on a meeting with his former Head of House before he’d had time to hit the showers.

“Yeah, Professor?” he asked, wondering why she’d bothered to track him all the way to the base of Gryffindor Tower.

“May I ask you where you’re going?”

“Erm…to take a shower, then thought I’d go to bed,” said Harry, rather puzzled.

“Going to help with repairs again tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’d planned on it,” he said, even more confused that she was finding it necessary to grill him in the hall about his activities. “Why?”

“I think, perhaps, the others could handle it without you,” she said tersely.

Harry stepped back, stung.

“Are you kicking me out? Do you want me to leave?”

“Potter –” Professor McGonagall heaved a weary sigh. “Harry. The war is over, and you did Gryffindor – _me_ – proud, but you don’t have to keep doing everything. You can’t fix it all alone. Let others have that job now.”

“But I want to help, Professor!”

“I know, and that’s part of what makes you you. But, Potter, are you helping here, or hiding here?”

The words hurt, perhaps because there was more than a little bit of truth in them that Harry didn’t want to hear. He opened his mouth to protest but McGonagall forestalled him with a hand. “Potter, I’m not _kicking you out_ , as you so eloquently put it. The bed in Gryffindor Tower is yours for as long as you wish, you’ve earned it. But I think, just maybe, it’s time you went home.”

“Home?” he asked, confused.

“Honestly, Potter,” snapped McGonagall, sounding suddenly much more like his Transfiguration teacher. “Sometimes you force me to wonder if you would have made it through school without Granger’s help. Yes, _home_ , Mr. Potter – _the Burrow_!”

The Burrow. Harry had always liked to imagine that he had a home there, but he’d never dared be so presumptuous to voice that hope out loud. Hearing Professor McGonagall actually speak it filled him with a warm happiness.

“Molly’s been sending me three owls a day demanding I return you. She refuses to listen when I tell her _I’m_ not the one keeping you here, slaving away.”

Harry smiled for real; he couldn’t help it. “She’s not very good at listening once her mind’s made up,” he admitted.

“She’s not very good at listening when her children are involved,” McGonagall said curtly. “Please, Potter, a little mercy. _GO HOME_. Before she resorts to Howlers.”

Harry sighed. He wanted to; he missed the Burrow and all the Weasleys. He just wasn’t ready. Working in the solitude of the castle, sweating and straining as he fought to help make order again, it gave him time to think, to grieve, to put the battered pieces of his soul back together. Soon, he might feel whole enough to leave, but not quite yet.

“Tell her I’ll come home –” he said the word with extreme pleasure, “– soon, but I’m not ready yet.”

McGonagall eyed him for a long moment with an unreadable expression while Harry fought the urge to squirm like a first year. Finally, she nodded.

“I’ll let her know. In the meantime, make sure you stop to eat three meals a day. I will not have Molly Weasley accusing me of not feeding you.” She looked at him a moment longer and Harry didn’t think he was imagining the deep fondness in her eyes. “Well, off to bed with you then,” she finally said curtly.

“Yes, Professor,” he said with a grin, and turned on his heels and ran up the steps of the tower.


	3. The Wages of War

**Chapter 2: “The Wages of War”**

_“Guilt is the source of sorrow, 'tis the fiend, Th' avenging fiend, that follows us behind, With whips and stings”_

_\- Nicholas Rowe_

*****

The reception area at St. Mungo’s was extremely crowded when Harry stepped into it. On top of the normal day-to-day business, the hospital was still dealing with the fallout after the War. As people emerged from hiding or those who had been wrongfully imprisoned where released, more and more patients were turning up every day.

Harry walked through the room feeling very self-conscious, but at least here people were too caught up in their own problems to bother much about him. They stared, of course, but no one approached him, and he thankfully seemed to have lost the media circus that had been hounding him for days.

Counting his lucky stars, he stepped up to the witch at the Inquiries desk.

“I’m here to see Fred Weasley,” he said when she gave him a bored look.

“Are you family?” she asked in a cool voice.

“Yeah,” said Harry without hesitation. “Yeah, I am.”

Her eyes flicked upward, not to his scar, but to his black hair. She looked very much like she didn’t believe him, but after a moment she just shrugged and turned to scan her charts.

“Fourth floor, second corridor, room 432. Visiting hours end promptly at six o’clock.” 

“Thanks,” said Harry, hurrying away before she could change her mind.

The lift was empty when he got in so he took the opportunity to loosen his collar and remove his tie. He was feeling hot and stuffy in his suit – a suit he’d worn way too much in the last few days.

The funerals had started on Tuesday and hadn’t let up since. Harry felt obligated to attend as many as he could, but some were definitely harder than others. They’d buried Remus and Tonks yesterday, and Harry still felt like a part of his heart had been left behind in the ground with them. Colin Creevey’s had been that afternoon and he’d come straight from the cemetery without changing. As the lift dinged and he stepped out onto the fourth floor, he was just eternally gratefully that he wouldn’t be attending a funeral for Fred tomorrow.

The hall he stepped out into was quiet and deserted. He looked up and down it, searching for a sign or an arrow to tell him which way to go, but found nothing. He sighed. It was more than a week since the Battle had ended and Madam Pomfrey had whisked Fred away from his startled family to St Mungo’s, but Harry hadn’t been to see him yet. At first, it had been extremely touch-and-go as to whether he would even make it, and Harry knew as much as he wanted to be there, he would just be in the way. Then, later, he’d been busy and people had needed his help, and he hadn’t wanted to intrude on the Weasleys in such a private time. In truth, he’d also been a bit nervous. What if Fred, or any of the others, blamed him for what happened? He certainly blamed himself, but he wasn’t sure he was ready to see that blame on the faces of the people he loved the most. He was also worried about actually seeing Fred like this. Fred Weasley was supposed to be vibrant and lively; Harry wasn’t sure he could handle seeing his friend gravely ill and in terrible pain.

“Mr. Potter!”

Harry glanced up at his name to see Madam Pomfrey coming down the corridor.

“Injured yourself again, have you?” she asked with a disapproving frown.

“What?” he said, then he realized she must think he was in the hospital for himself. “Oh, no, Madam Pomfrey. I’m here to see Fred.”

Her eyes softened. “Ah,” she said, now sounding tired. “Poor boy. He’ll be glad of your visit.”

“How is he?” asked Harry quickly. The reports that had been filtering back to him had sounded grim.

“Well, the poor lad has a long way to go yet, but I can finally say that I’m sure he’ll make it.”

A weight that Harry hadn’t even known he’d been carrying lifted off his chest.

“Madam Pomfrey, may I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“How did he live? We _saw_ him get hit, saw him die, so how were you able to save him?” Not that he wasn’t ecstatic that Fred had survived, but he’d been worried by it as well. A trick like that usually involved a lot of Dark Magic, and his little trip down Horcrux lane had made him paranoid.

“It was a one-in-a-million occurrence, Mr. Potter, I’ll tell you that.”

“What do you mean?”

“The castle wall was hit by a Killing Curse at the very instant it was blasted apart,” she explained. “As it fell on Mr. Weasley it spread the curse to him while at the same time the falling rubble did considerable physical damage. Either one alone would have killed him, but together they actually saved his life.”

Harry stared at her in disbelief, an expression she obviously saw because the Healer hurried to continue. “Because the curse hit the wall first it was greatly dissipated before it reached Mr. Weasley, essentially spreading to him _through_ the stone. Instead of killing him, it Petrified him – rather like the victims of the Basilisk who were fortunate enough to only see a reflection of its eyes. Mr. Weasley was struck with a weakened spell instead of the whole blast. This Petrification also happened at the exact moment the rubble crushed him, in essence freezing his injuries before they could kill him.”

“Wow,” breathed Harry, stunned by the news and the incredible odds that had saved Fred’s life. “So, if the Killing Curse hadn’t hit him, the explosion would have killed him, and if the rubble hasn’t been there, the curse would have?” he said with awe.

“Exactly,” said Madam Pomfrey, looking pleased he understood. “As I said, a one-in-a-million chance. Mr. Weasley is one lucky young man.”

“He’ll be okay now, though, won’t he?”

“I won’t lie to you. He’s still very ill. I’ve had to literally put him back together again on the inside. It’s too soon to know the extent of any lasting complications, but I expect he won’t come out of this without some permanent damage. There’s just too much that we still don’t know yet, but he’s alive and amazingly in good humor, so we shouldn’t complain.”

“Sounds like Fred,” said Harry with a grin. “Thank you,” he added fervently to the Healer. “He’d be dead if it weren’t for you.”

“Well, believe it or not, Mr. Potter, I do not take the health of my students lightly…” She eyed him carefully, as if scanning him from head to toes. “…even after they leave school.”

“I believe you,” he said quickly, fidgeting a little under her gaze. He was quite sure she was seeing everything from the enormous and painful bruise on his chest left from Voldemort’s curse to the fact that he’d forgotten to brush his teeth that morning. “Um, can you tell me where his room is?” he asked, suddenly very anxious to escape her knowing eyes.

“Straight down this hall and around the corner, first door on the left.”

“Thanks,” he mumbled again and hurried off. He could feel her eyes following him all the way until he mercifully turned the corner.

He found room 432 easily now he had directions. He knocked quietly before opening the door a crack and poking his head in. It was a private room, one of those reserved for the most gravely injured patients.

“Harry!” someone whispered. He glanced toward the closest corner and found Charlie sitting in a chair, a copy of _Quidditch International_ in his lap. “Come in!” he said in the same stage whisper. “Come in!”

Harry slipped inside and closed the door quietly behind him, then walked hesitantly to the foot of the bed that took up most of the small room. His throat tightened at the sight that met his eyes.

Fred lay on his back on the bed, arms at his sides, creamy bandages wrapped around his left hand and wrist. His chest was bare and encased in some sort of shimmering Shield Charm, but Harry could still see the horrible purple bruising that covered his whole torso and shoulders and disappeared under the blanket pulled up to his waist. His head was also wrapped in bandages that extended down over his eyes, and a complicated sort of Bubble Charm complete with floating, miniature bellows covered his nose and mouth.

Harry stared at him in horror, thinking he looked worse now than he had when he’d been dead! 

“You can talk to him,” whispered Charlie again. “He’s awake. I was just reading to him when you came.”

“Hey, Fred,” said Harry quietly, still not over the shock of seeing the twin like this.

Fred lifted his right hand and gave a little wave, and behind the bubble Harry thought he saw him smile.

“He can’t talk right now because of the Breathing Charm,” Charlie explained, setting the magazine aside and using his wand to draw up another chair. “His ribs and lungs were badly crushed and the Healers say it will be at least another week before he can breathe on his own.”

Harry raised his eyebrows as he sat down. “Two weeks without talking? Ouch, mate,” he whispered sympathetically. He’d never known Fred Weasley to last more than a few minutes without speaking.

Fred made a gesture with his right hand that more than eloquently described his thoughts on the matter.

“Oh, I don’t know, he seems to be doing just fine,” said Charlie with a chuckle that Harry shared. “Just don’t let Mum catch you doing that.”

Fred sent a second gesture toward his brother.

“Where is your mum?” whispered Harry, noticing how empty of Weasleys the little room was.

“Ginny and Fleur took her back to the Burrow to force her to get some rest. And Dad, Bill, and Percy went into the Ministry today. The Government’s in a shambles right now and, even though he’d never ask at a time like this, Kingsley could really use their help. Fred’s doing well enough they felt they could leave for a while.”

Harry felt a stab of guilt and dropped his head, shoulders sagging. He should have been there, too, helping put the world back together instead of hiding out at Hogwarts lifting rocks. The Weasleys had a son and brother in hospital, barely having escaped death and not out of the woods yet, and they managed to show up to help, yet he, Harry, who was only suffering a boatload of bad memories, couldn’t make it?

In typically Weasley fashion, Charlie seemed to read his mind. “Harry, no one’s blaming you for not being there. You’re allowed to take a little time for yourself, you know.”

Harry sniffed, unconvinced, but decided to let the subject drop. “If Fred’s awake, why are we whispering?”

Charlie nodded toward the far corner where Harry noticed a low pallet he hadn’t seen before. George lay on it, curled in a ball and completely zonked.

“I think it’s the first time he’s slept in days,” said Charlie, face softening as he gazed at his little brother. George did look particularly haggard. There were deep, dark circles around his closed eyes and stubble covered his cheeks and chin. He lay on his right side, leaving the gaping hole where his left ear had once been exposed, which didn’t help the sad picture. “No one can get him to leave, not even Mum. Finally, the Healers gave up and just brought the camp bed in. He and Fred had some sort of furious, one-sided conversation about an hour ago and he finally collapsed.”

“Maybe you should bribe the Healers to slip him a Sleeping Potion while he’s out. Looks like he could use it,” Harry suggested, thinking George looked completely worn out.

“Devious,” chuckled Charlie with approval. “I like the way you think, Mr. Potter. Always knew you were part Weasley.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Harry with a grin. “The witch at the desk didn’t reckon so. Almost didn’t let me come up; she seemed to think my hair was the wrong color.”

Behind the breathing bubble, Harry saw Fred smile slightly again and he could almost hear the wise retort he knew the twin must be aching to give. He relaxed some, glad no one seemed inclined to rake him over the coals for not coming to visit earlier.

“How was the funeral?” asked Charlie.

“Fine,” said Harry shortly. It was a funeral, after all, and for someone who’d only been sixteen. “Ron gave your family’s condolences to his parents. And Fred,” he added, turning back to his friend, “Colin’s mum said to tell you they wish you the best.”

Fred gave another little wave, showing he’d heard.

“So, Ron and Hermione get on their way, then?” continued Charlie.

“Yeah. They left right after the service. International Apparation is still being restricted so they took the ferry to the Continent and then they’ll Apparate to Australia from there. I think, now that everything’s over, Hermione’s really anxious and worried about seeing her parents again.”

“Very _noble_ of Ron to volunteer to go with her then.” Charlie’s eyes twinkled.

Harry let out a snort. “Noble has nothing to do with it,” he said, rolling his eyes as he shucked off his suit coat and undid another button on his shirt, making himself more comfortable. “I don’t think he’s let go of her hand since the Battle ended.”

At this, Fred waggled his fingers, asking for something that Harry didn’t understand but Charlie obviously did. The older brother reached down and drew two things from under his chair: a bit of parchment and a self-inking quill. He spread the parchment on the bed at Fred’s side, placed the quill in his brother’s fingers, and then guided his hand so the tip rested on the blank page.

Realizing now what Fred wanted to do, Harry scooted his chair closer where he could see what his friend wrote.

 _He’s making up for lost time_. The words and letters were large and sloppy, looping drunkenly here and overlapping each other there, but Harry could read them. Considering Fred was flat on his back, eyes wrapped in bandages and writing completely by touch, Harry was impressed.

“Yeah, he’s always been a bit thick when it comes to Hermione, hasn’t he?” he laughed.

Charlie touched the parchment with his wand and the ink siphoned off, leaving it clean for his brother to write on again.

 _What about you, and Ginny?_ Fred wrote next.

Harry blushed and looked down at his hands. “Um…I haven’t spoken to her yet, actually. Not –” he held up a hand to stall the comment he could practically see forming on Charlie’s tongue “– that I don’t want to. I just…well…I needed some time to…”

“Time to sort yourself out first,” finished Charlie knowingly.

Harry nodded, grateful he understood.

“Well, no offence, mate, but a head case like yours? Might take a while and she’s not gonna wait forever…”

Harry looked over to find George sitting cross-legged on the pallet, blinking owlishly and running a hand over his worn face.

Harry snorted and shook his head. “You’re supposed to get some sleep.”

“With you three yakking away?” he asked, leaning back against the wall.

Fred scratched something on his parchment.

“Fred says you’re a bloody git,” Charlie read out loud.

“Yeah, well, takes one to know one,” quipped George wearily.

Harry laughed. Trust the twins to be normal even in such insane circumstances as this.

“So, Harry, you finally decided to grace us with your presence, huh?” asked George.

“Something like that,” Harry replied with another laugh.

“Good, ‘cause Fred and I were about ready to draw straws and see who had the pleasure of finding your scrawny bum and dragging it here, after a good thrashing for stupidity, of course.”

Harry’s eyebrows climbed his forehead again and he looked back and forth between the twins – one stuck in a hospital bed more dead than alive and the other looking like he was auditioning for a role as a zombie.

“Yeah, mate, that’s a right scary threat, that is.” Beside him, Charlie snorted with laughter. “So, how long are you in here for, Fred?” asked Harry, turning the conversation back to the injured twin.

Fred just shook his hand in a noncommittal way.

“We’re not sure,” Charlie interpreted. “Healers aren’t giving us a date yet, but they’ve all said there’s no way it’ll be less than a month.”

Harry winced, not just from the fact he knew how _happy_ Fred had to be at the prospect of a month long hospital stay, but because he knew all of it was going to rack up a pretty penny in medical bills the Weasleys would be hard-pressed to pay. He ran his fingers distractedly around the collar of his shirt – it was the only dress-shirt he had and it didn’t fit very well considering it was purchased four days ago in a Muggle secondhand shop – wondering if there was any way he could convince them to let him help out with the expenses. If Gringotts ever unfroze his accounts and pulled him off their black list, that is.

“Harry, what’s that?”

Harry looked up at George’s question. “What’s what?”

“That.” The twin pointed at his chest. Harry glanced down to see the edge of the dark purple bruise showing in the opening of his shirt. He’d exposed it when he’d been playing with his collar.

“Oh, nothing,” he said, trying to shrug it off.

“Harry,” Charlie jumped in the conversation, having seen it as well. “It’s not nothing. Let us see.”

With a sigh, Harry unbuttoned his shirt and pulled the sides apart slightly. George gave a low whistle as he stared at the deep bruise. “Darn, Harry! You sure you don’t want us to book you a bed next to Fred? That looks nasty!”

“How’d you get that?” asked Charlie, eyeing him with concern.

“In the Forest,” said Harry shortly, not wanting to discuss it. He watched both their eyes widen in comprehension, mouths turning down in very similar frowns. “And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it to anyone, Ron and your mum especially,” he added as he redid his shirt back up, closing all but the collar button this time. After a moment’s hesitation, George and Charlie both nodded.

In the silence, Fred’s quill scratched the parchment again.

 _What’s Harry got? And what happened in the Forest?_ Harry read. Apparently, Fred wasn’t completely up-to-date on everything that had taken place on the night of the Battle.

“Just a bruise, Fred,” he said, standing and gathering up his jacket and tie. “And have George fill you in on the rest.” He looked at George, who nodded again. “I’d better run. Visiting hours are almost over. You keep getting better, though,” he told his friend warmly. “My Weasley products are running a little low – I’m gonna need to restock soon.”

Fred smiled again and just waved goodbye instead of writing. Harry thought he looked tired and in pain so it was probably good that he was leaving.

“Don’t be a stranger, Harry, or I really will hunt you down,” threatened George.

“I won’t,” Harry assured him. Then he turned to the older Weasley brother. “Charlie, could I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, nodding his head toward the door.

“Yeah, sure.” Charlie stood and followed him into the hall, closing the door behind him. “What is it, Harry?”

“Fred. Is he really going to be okay?” It had unnerved him to no end to see the normally active and cheerful twin so still and injured.

Charlie sighed. “He’ll live. And heal, if that’s what you’re asking. Healers aren’t yet sure if there will be lasting problems from this.”

Harry frowned. That’s what he’d been worried about. Magic that powerful didn’t normally just let you walk away unscathed. “Is he in a lot of pain?”

Charlie eyed Harry for a moment, then nodded, his expression clouding. “Yeah. He tries to hide it but we can all tell.”

Harry was grateful Charlie told him the truth, not the sugar-coated answer most people would have given.

“What’s wrong with his eyes?”

“Dunno,” said Charlie darkly. “The Healers haven’t figured it out. They’ve said there’s swelling in his brain, along with the highest concentration of spell residue. There might also be damage to the eyes themselves.” He shrugged dejectedly. “Honestly, no one’s saying much that’s helpful yet.”

Harry sighed and turned his face away, upset by the news.

“Look, Charlie,” he started after a moment, shoving his hands into his pockets and turning to face the redheaded man. “Right now my Gringotts accounts have been frozen, but – ”

“Wait,” interrupted Charlie with a worried frown. “Your accounts have been frozen? Why?”

“Something about breaking and entering, grand theft, excessive damages…” He shrugged, fighting the urge to smile as Charlie’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sure it’ll all be straightened out soon, and anyway, that’s not my point. Charlie, I’d like to help with all this.” He gestured at the hospital room behind them.

Harry knew Charlie understood instantly what he was offering as his lips drew into a thin line. “Harry, you know we can’t let you do that. We’ll be all right.”

“Really? A month or more stay in the hospital; potions and spells and lasting complications? No offense, please, because I admire and respect your parents more than any other adults I know, but can you honestly tell me they can afford all this? Fred needs the best care available, but I don’t want your family to lose everything in the process!”

Charlie closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand through his hair. “Harry…I know you’re feeling loads of guilt right now, but –”

Anger flared in Harry and he road over Charlie’s words.

“Guilt?” he cried loudly, attracting the attention of an orderly on duty at the station just down the hall. She glared at them and Harry lowered his voice. “You think that’s why I’m offering? Heck yeah I feel guilty! I’ve dragged my friends away from their families, from school, made them kip out in the cold and rain, go hungry… I’ve attended twelve funerals in the last four days of people who died in a fight for me. I’ve got a godson who’s going to grow up without parents because of me! And to top it all off, I just sat in that room for an hour with one of my best friends in more pain than I can imagine because he willingly volunteered for that fight I started. So, yeah, I’ve got the market cornered on guilt at the moment, Charlie. But that has nothing to do with my offer.”

He paused, feeling emotionally and physically drained as the last week caught up with him once more. Charlie mercifully stayed silent, giving him time.

“I’ve offered because…Ron…Fred…well, all of you are my…my family. You’re all I’ve got left, Charlie, and…” He shrugged. “Isn’t that what families do? Help each other if they can? I have the money, I want to help.”

Charlie stared at him for a while, a plethora of emotions darting across his tanned and weathered face. Finally, he sighed and nodded. “All right, I’ll speak to Dad. It would be nice to see him less worried, but don’t be surprised if he says exactly what I did, Harry.”

It was the best he was likely to get and Harry knew it. “Thanks,” he said, sticking out his hand. Charlie grabbed it in a firm grip with his calloused one and then, much to Harry’s surprise, proceeded to pull him into a tight, brotherly embrace.

“Oof,” gasped Harry, shocked and winded. Charlie’s arms and torso were strong and muscled. It was rather like being hugged by a small boulder, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. Awkwardly, he returned the hug as Charlie thumped him on the back.

“You know, kiddo, in all this mess I doubt anyone’s taken the time to tell _you_ thanks. You’re a good kid, Harry,” said Charlie solemnly. “We care about you as much as you care about us, y’know.”

Charlie released him and stepped back, leaving Harry rather red-faced and embarrassed. 

“Now get on home to the Burrow and let Mum fuss over you. She’s been waiting for days.” He gave Harry a conspiratorial wink.

Harry grinned sheepishly. “’K, but I’m serious, Charlie. Talk to your dad,” he said as he started backwards down the hall.

Charlie nodded. “Oh, and Harry,” he called. Harry stopped. “Get Bill on the Gringotts problem. He’ll help you straighten it all out.”

Harry laughed. _Bill!_ He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that himself. He waved his understanding and thanks to Charlie, then turned away. Already thinking of how he might enlist the eldest Weasley brother’s help, Harry made his way back to the lift, down through the lobby, and out to the Apparation point. With a deep breath, knowing it was high time, he closed his eyes and Apparated to the Burrow.

*****

George slumped in the chair watching his twin sleep with bleary eyes, savoring every detail. He knew he should feel awful, knowing how badly Fred was hurting, and he really did, but he also couldn’t help feeling extremely happy. For one heart-wrenching night, George had known how life without Fred would be, had experienced the loss in his very core. Now, a miracle had brought his twin back to him and thankfully made that night only a memory, but it was a memory he would never forget. _Nothing_ could be as bad as Fred being dead. Yes, Fred was very ill and might never be completely healthy again, but he was alive and everything else was just fluff they could work out later.

The door opened and Charlie walked back in, breaking George out of his thoughts.

“So, he beating himself up as badly as we thought?” he asked his brother, his voice gravelly from exhaustion.

“Worse,” replied Charlie sadly, taking the chair Harry had vacated. “He’s trying to take responsibility for the whole War.”

“Stupid prat,” muttered George. “You send him home to the Burrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Think he actually went?”

“Probably. Where else is he going to go?”

George sniffed sadly and nodded. With such a huge family, both immediate and extended, it was almost unfathomable to him to think of not having anywhere to call home. He felt bad for his friend, struck again with the realization of how much he’d missed out on in life, and how much that life had unfairly demanded of him in return. He really had drawn a very short straw.

“Mum’ll knock some sense into him,” said Charlie firmly.

“Only if Ginny doesn’t get to him first,” replied George.

Charlie gave a little laugh. “We did just send the unsuspecting bloke right into the clutches of all three Weasley women, didn’t we?”

“Poor sod,” said George not sounding sorry at all.

“And, speaking of poor sods, I believe you are supposed to be sleeping?” Charlie arched his eyebrows and nodded toward the pallet.

“I slept,” argued George, not moving. He didn’t want to leave Fred’s side. He was still too terrified he’d wake up and find Fred was dead and this had all been a dream.

“George,” said Charlie sternly, sounding more like Bill than the carefree older brother he was used to, “you look like crap. You haven’t slept for more than a few hours since the Battle ended. You haven’t even gone home yet. The last thing Fred or any of us needs is for you to make yourself sick and end up in a hospital bed of your own.”

George stared icily at his brother. “I’m not a little kid, Charlie.”

“So stop acting like one and I’ll stop treating you like one,” replied Charlie, unflinchingly. He pointed to the low camp bed in the corner. “Sleep,” he ordered.

George glared a moment longer then sagged in defeat. “You’ll wake me up if anything happens or changes?”

“He’s your twin, George. I won’t have to wake you and you know it.”

He smiled wearily at that, knowing how true it was. He and Fred had always had that little extra connection, something their other brothers had learned to just shrug and accept. “Fine,” he finally conceded, standing. When the room spun around him and he had to grab the back of the chair for a moment to steady himself, George was forced to admit that maybe Charlie had a point. A little sleep might not be such a bad idea. Carefully, he made his way to the pallet in the corner and let himself fall onto it. 

He was asleep almost instantly.


	4. Coming Home

**Chapter 3: “Coming Home”**

_“A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no awe, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.”  
\- Agatha Christie_

*****

Evening was settling in at the Burrow as Molly Weasley sat at the kitchen table quietly drinking a cup of peppermint tea and listening to the silence around her. It was a strange silence, one that spoke of changes and new directions, but thankfully not the overwhelming pain and sorrow that it could have.

The clock on the mantle chimed seven as she took another sip. She needed to get back to the hospital shortly. The girls had brought her home almost six hours ago, forcing her to get the rest she knew she needed even if she didn’t want to admit it. She had slept for a while, but her emotions and thoughts were still too raw and battered to rest for long. Fleur and Ginny, also completely exhausted, were still sleeping, but Molly had finally admitted defeat and sought refuge in her kitchen, allowing her tumultuous feelings to surface in the solitude. It was her favorite room and always seemed to offer comfort when she needed it, which she certainly did now. Alone there with her familiar things around her and without the throng of her family, she allowed herself the luxury of a small melt down. Grief, astonishment, months of stress and worry, extreme thankfulness – they all filled her and overflowed into the empty room. Grief for things lost: Fred’s health, dear friends, Ginny, Ron and Harry’s – who was every bit as much her own son as any of the others – lost childhood. Overwhelming joy for things returned: Percy, Fred’s life, Harry’s life, peace and safety. Once the floodgates were opened, she couldn’t stop it, and Molly Weasley let these emotions along with a million others pour from her and be swallowed up in the silence of the room.

Now, as she sipped her tea almost an hour later, she felt worn out but somehow refreshed and renewed. Things had changed and would never be the same – such was life – but she was ready to deal with it now and to help her family through it as well.

She Summoned the teapot and poured another cup. One more and a few more moments with her thoughts and then she would wake Fleur and tell her daughter-in-law she was going back to St. Mungo’s to stay the night with Fred. And George, she reminded herself, knowing nothing on earth or in heaven would convince her son to leave his twin’s side.

It was good, though, she thought proudly, to watch her family come together. It always warmed her heart to see that her sons and daughter had grown from squabbling, rowdy children into young adults who supported each other. Granted, they were often still rowdy, and often still squabbled spectacularly, but that wasn’t what she meant. Her boys had become good, brave men who stood staunchly beside each other – her daughter a strong and passionate young lady. What more could a mother ask for?

Sighing contentedly, she gazed out the window at the familiar view. The trees were sprouting their leaves, and the flowers in her garden were beginning to poke up through the ground again. After a long, hard, cold, winter, spring had arrived. The symbolism of it all certainly wasn’t lost on her.

Looking farther, out beyond the borders of their property, she saw the road that stretched and twisted toward the Village that was hidden behind a hill. Movement caught her eyes and she straightened, setting down her teacup.

A lone figure was walking down the lane. He wore a formal if faded Muggle suit, but the top button of the shirt was left undone and the tie was simply looped around his neck and shoulders. He walked slowly, his head lowered and his hands shoved into his pockets, kicking at the gravel with his toes as if unsure if he should continue forward.

Molly’s heart clenched at the sight and tears filled her eyes. Her lost boy was finally coming home. He was among the walking wounded – of that she had no doubt – but he was coming home, and the rest they could work out.

Resolutely, she swiped away any moisture from her eyes. With a flick of her wand the pot of leftover soup Fleur had made earlier hopped onto the stove and began heating. Another wave and a loaf of bread commenced slicing itself. She Summoned a second cup and saucer and then just waited at the table. She still needed to return to the hospital, but she knew Fred would understand her delay.

Finally, after many long moments where she fought the urge to jerk open the door and rush to the boy, there was a hesitant knock on the kitchen door.

“It’s open, Harry,” she called, standing to check on the soup.

The door opened and he came in, a look of mild astonishment on his pale face. “How did you…?”

“I saw you coming down the lane, dear,” she told him with a gentle smile.

“Oh,” he muttered, then seemed to remember he was still standing in the open doorway and turned around, shutting the door behind him.

“Why didn’t you Apparate here?” she asked, placing a bowl and spoon on the table.

“I did,” he answered, still standing uncertainly by the door. “Well, I Apparated most of the way here, and then I walked the rest. I…I was thinking.”

Molly glanced at him again as she pulled a goblet from the cupboard. He looked so lost and young and unsure, standing there with his hands still shoved deeply into his pockets and his eyes glued to the tops of his shoes. Minerva was right; the boy was floundering and in desperate need of some mothering.

“Well, come in and have something to eat. Fleur made the soup, an old family recipe, and it’s delicious,” she said, acting on instinct. Her mother had always held firmly to the belief that all of life’s problems were best solved over good food.

Harry, however, didn’t move but remained standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I’ve just been to visit Fred,” he said quietly, still not meeting her eyes.

Molly stopped her fussing with the meal and turned to face him, waiting. Eventually, he sucked in a huge breath and lifted his head, squaring his shoulders as he met her eyes.

“Mrs. Weasley, I’m so sorry,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “He’s hurt so badly, in so much pain, and it’s all my fault! He never would have been there if not for me. I should have told you this days ago, but I…I didn’t dare.”

“Oh, Harry,” she cried, her heart breaking. She set the jug of pumpkin juice down on the table and stepped up to him, gathering him in her arms. He stiffened, but she didn’t let go. “Harry, none of this is your fault!” she told him firmly. “None of it! I know you don’t believe that right now, but I’m going to keep repeating it until you do.” She squeezed him tighter and felt him return the hug slightly. “And as for the part about Fred not being there if it weren’t for you, that’s hogwash and you know it. Do you honestly think anything could have kept Fred away? Or any of us?” She pushed him back and lifted his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “We picked sides in this battle years ago, long before we even knew you. He would have been in the thick of it no matter what, and he’d tell you so himself if he could.”

“But Mrs. Weasley,” protested Harry, not listening, “how can you not be...be upset with me? I dragged your whole family into the War!” He swallowed thickly. “Even Ginny. It was like that boggart. I…I made your worst fears come true!”

“A war you almost single-handedly managed to end at great personal cost, Harry,” she countered gently, brushing his shaggy hair off his forehead. “And my worst fears did _not_ come true. Fred’s alive, and so are you. I would call that a miracle, not something to be apologizing for.”

“Even though he’s hurt so…badly?” His voice was timid, hesitant.

With a sigh, Molly placed her hands on his shoulders and guided him into a chair at the table. She then pulled another chair over and sat down so she was facing him. “Harry, I’m going to tell you something and I want you to listen carefully to me. That night, in the Battle, when I saw Fred laying there I…” She gulped. Harry needed to hear this, but her emotions were still raw and tender and it was hard to talk about. “I felt like my heart had been ripped into tiny pieces. He’s my son, my l-l-l-little boy,” her voice cracked, “how could he be d-d-d-dead and I still be here?” She wiped at the tears that were leaking from her eyes but didn’t bother to try and stop them. “I wanted to lie right down beside him and die, too, but I also knew I had other children who needed me.”

Harry looked away, guilt-stricken, tears of his own in his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered again.

“No, Harry,” said Molly firmly, reaching out to turn his face back toward her as she shook her head. “The thing is that I felt the _exact_ same way when I watched Hagrid carry you out of that forest! I thought you were dead! That I’d lost another one of my sons!”

Harry swallowed, unable to say anything, which was just as well, because Molly wasn’t finished. “Now, I don’t know what’s going to happen with Fred, but the point is he’s alive! You both are! I know somehow it will all work out. And you’re going to be all right, too, you know.”

The young man shrugged. “I don’t know,” he muttered brokenly. “I spent so long not allowing myself to…to think of anything other than Voldemort and what needed to be done, now that it’s over I don’t know what to think, or feel, or do. I honestly hadn’t expected to have to worry about it much. Now…now I… What do I do?” The open, brutal honesty of his voice surprised her even as the anguished question tore at her heart. Harry had never been one to share his thoughts much, keeping them close and secret as a survival instinct. She was touched that he would trust her like this.

“You take it one day at a time, dear,” she said softly, squeezing his shoulders and not bothering to stop the tear that rolled down her cheek. “And you let those of us who love you help you through it.”

“But I…” He broke off again and looked away. Suddenly, he sucked in a huge, trembling breath. “Mrs. Weasley,” he whispered, a sob rising from his chest as he lost the battle to keep back whatever he was fighting, “I…I don’t have anywhere to go.”

The loneliness that poured from him threatened to drown them both. Here he was, only seventeen, and already ripped from the heart of one family and casually discarded by another. He’d had father-figures and friends thrust upon him and then torn away without care. The wizarding world had willingly laid its salvation at his feet, and then tossed him unthinkingly aside when he shouldered its burdens without complaint and accomplished what it couldn’t do. He was an instant celebrity, the poster boy of the War. Everyone wanted his autograph, but no one thought to ask if “The Boy Who Lived” had a roof over his head, clothes on his back, food in his stomach…

“Oh, Harry,” she cried again, leaning forward and gathering the trembling boy into her arms, pulling his head to her chest. This time, he wrapped his own arms around her and clung on, as if for dear life, as great, wracking sobs gripped him. The front of her robes were soon wet from his tears, but she didn’t mind, especially since the top of his head was damp from where her own were falling. “Shh, Harry,” she soothed, swaying slightly and running a gentle hand through his hair as she used to do for Ron when he was small and needed comforting. She knew instinctively that the boy currently in her arms had never experienced this before, and that he desperately needed it. “It’s okay,” she whispered into his dark hair. “You’re not alone.” She kissed the top of his head, pulling him closer. “Harry, this house…this family…we’re your home and as long as we’re here you will always have somewhere to go. Don’t ever forget that.”

Off to the side, the teapot whistled softly and the soup bubbled, but Molly paid no heed to either one. Instead she sat at the kitchen table and rocked the young man in her arms as he released years of pent up pain and sorrow, marveling at how he could be ages old and so incredibly young at the same time.

*****

The warm glow of the rising sun filled the small graveyard behind the church, bathing the place in a solemn, eternal kind of light. Reverently, Molly Weasley stood before the white headstone. It was early morning and she was exhausted, having spent the evening comforting one boy and the night watching over another, but she knew she needed to do this before she returned home.

With solemnity, she stepped forward and laid the bouquet of flowers on the grave. _Daisies_. Convention would have implied that she bring lilies, or at the very least roses, but Molly had never been one to put much stock in convention, and daisies had just seemed to fit. They were strong and resilient, and while she hadn’t known the woman she brought them for, she did know her son.

“Lily,” she addressed the gleaming headstone, the name strange on her lips, “I don’t know you, never had the chance to meet you, but if you are the kind of a mother I suspect, I’m sure you know who I am. My Ron’s been bringing your Harry home for years now, and I thought it was high time I introduced myself.”

She paused, but not because she felt odd, holding a conversation with the dead. She was the mother of seven wild children; odd didn’t exist in her vocabulary. The sunshine just felt warm and comfortable on her tired shoulders and she waited a moment, soaking it in.

“He’s a good boy,” she said with a smile, “but I’m sure you know that, too. Loyal, kind, brave. Full of mischief, when he lets himself be, but too solemn and much too skinny for my liking. We’re going to work on that, though.”

She paused again, memories filling her and the location sinking in. _How close she’d come to leaving both Fred and Harry in a place such as this_. She blinked back tears.

“He loves you – desperately,” she continued. “You and his father. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, he’s never told me, but I’ve gathered enough to know he’s had the odd moment to actually speak with you. That means the world to him, and he’d want you to know it. But, Lily, he’s lonely. Terribly lonely, and we both know that’s not good for a young man.

“I’m not trying to steal him from you, or replace you. I would never do that. But he needs love so desperately, and I was hoping you wouldn’t mind if I stepped in for you, while I’m here.”

She stopped, glancing up at the sun as it crept higher into the sky and drinking in the beauty of it before she spoke again. “We love him like a son, Arthur and I,” she said, quietly. “He’s a part of our family now and we’ll take care of him, make sure he’s all right, remind him to wear clean underwear and comb his hair once in a while, try to keep him from being so lonely. I wanted you to know that. If I were where you are, I know I would want someone taking care of my children, and so I give you my word, one mother to another, that he will be loved.”

“Besides, I have a daughter – fiery, redheaded, passionate little thing. I’ve seen the way he looks at her. You know that look, Lily, I’m sure you’ve seen it, too. And frankly,” she added with a conspiratorial wink and a glance at the name that shared the woman’s headstone, “you know what they say about apples and trees… I suspect it might not be too long before I have the honor of at least being his official mother-in-law. But, even if that never does happen, I promise you he will always have a place in our home.”

She gave a little sigh and arched her back, pulling on tired muscles and letting her spine pop. “It wears you out, you know, raising boys, even though you wouldn’t trade it for anything. They grow their hair out and hang fangs from their ears, or traipse across the continent thinking fire-breathing lizards make good pets. They grow up and run off, trying to save the world, or join wars they really have no business being in but you know you could never keep them away from. It gives you heart-failure and ulcers and gray hairs.” She chuckled slightly. “I’m not sure how things work where you are, on the other side, but I have a sneaky suspicion you might know this. You’ve probably had your work cut out for you, pulling strings to keep that boy of yours safe and alive. Who knows, you may even have had a hand in the miraculous saving of my own boy; if so, I thank you from the bottom of my heart, for both of them.”

Molly didn’t really know why she was saying all of this; maybe she just felt a kinship with this woman, this other mother, knowing they both loved the same young man so deeply. She felt she could share these things. “I’ve got to go now,” she said quietly. “My Fred’s still in hospital and no one’s sure how completely he’ll recover, and Harry, Ron, George – they’re all a little lost and broken right now. We all are, I guess, and I need to be there. But you should know, Lily – and James,” she added, addressing the other name for the first time, “that he did it. Harry did it. Your son saved us all, and he survived again. You should be proud.”

She gave another little, warm smile and brushed her fingers across the top of the white stone. “We’ll take care of him for you, I promise,” she whispered, then turned around and walked toward the gate, waiting to Apparate until she was beyond the graveyard’s fence out of respect.

And somewhere, not so very far away, another mother watched her leave, tears glinting in her brilliant, green eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered, and she was almost certain the kind, good-hearted, and fiercely protective woman who was vowing to watch over her son somehow heard her words.


	5. The Importance of Communication

**Chapter 4: “The Importance of Communication”**

**Author’s note from 2009:** This chapter would not have happened without the help of a few wonderful people. siledubhghlase gave me good advice on how Ginny would be feeling and I really, really appreciate it. And theelderwand practically co-wrote it with me. In fact, much of what Harry says in the second half of this are his words, so I must give a HEARTY thank you to him for his help! Thanks bro! If you want a good read, go check out any of his three magnificent tales! I highly recommend them. 

**Author’s note from 2017:** I’d like to dedicate this chapter to the wonderful siledubhghlase. The world is a much lonelier place without you in it now.

*****

_“Haven’t your lips long for my touch? Don’t say how much; show me!  
Don’t talk of love lasting through time. Make me no undying vow.  
Show me now!”_

_\- Alan Jay Lerner, My Fair Lady _

*****

When Harry awoke there were a few moments where he was convinced he was trapped in a furnace. Everything around him was a brilliant orange, and he was sweating like a horse. He blinked his blurry, sleep-crusted eyes several times as the memories of the last night started filtering back through his mind and eventually realized he was simply in Ron’s orange plastered bedroom, buried under the quilts Mrs. Weasley had piled on him. He’d slept the day away and the hot afternoon sun was streaming through the window. Between that and the twenty or so blankets, Harry felt like he was in a sauna.

With a grunt, he dug a hand out of the mound and shoved the covers off. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, wincing as the bruise on his chest throbbed painfully. That bruise was taking an awfully long time to heal, which was annoying – until he remembered Fred and decided he had nothing to complain about.

With a lingering yawn, he ran his hands over his face a few times, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, then reached for the nightstand and found his glasses. As he slipped them on, Ron’s room snapped into focus. He smiled at the comfort of the familiar surroundings, glad that some things hadn’t changed. Pig hooted at him excitedly from his cage by the window, the same Chudley Cannons coverlet and posters hurt his eyes, and the same two beds were crammed into the tiny space. The only thing missing was his freckle-faced best friend.

Harry felt a pang of loneliness at that thought. He knew Ron and Hermione weren’t gone, were only away for a short time, would be back soon… It wasn’t like they were _moving_ to Australia, but he still missed them terribly. They’d been his whole world for this last year. He felt somehow exposed and vulnerable without them by his side, and he really hoped they’d find Hermione’s parents quickly and come home.

A trickle of sweat ran down his forehead and he wiped it away with a grimace. His pajamas were damp with sweat and stuck to him. He pulled the t-shirt away from his chest and sniffed it warily, then shuddered. He smelled like he’d just come off a two hour Quidditch practice.

“Disgusting,” he said out loud. Pig hooted back in happy agreement.

So, the first object of the day was a shower, and then he somehow needed to lose a least three-fourths of the blankets without hurting Mrs. Weasley’s feelings.

He got to his feet and grabbed for the rucksack that held everything he owned – he’d brought it to the Burrow last night shrunken in a pocket – then headed for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later and feeling much cleaner, he was standing on the landing with a folded pile of quilts and blankets in his arms, completely unsure of what to do next.

“She try and roast you alive last night?”

Harry glanced down the stairs to see Charlie coming up them from the level below. He just smiled and shrugged, not wanting to say anything unkind about Mrs. Weasley, especially after what she’d done for him the night before.

“Mum sent me up to see if you were awake yet. She’s got food,” said Charlie with a broad grin as he took half the stack of bedding out of Harry’s arms. “We can stop by the linen closet on the way down.”

“Thanks,” said Harry, following Charlie down the stairs. The red-haired man helped him stuff the bedding into a closet on the third floor landing, and then they made their way down to the kitchen.

Lunch was an ordinary Weasley affair, noisy and chaotic. The atmosphere was light and casual, but there was an undercurrent of stress and worry that Harry didn’t miss, one that was tied directly to the conspicuously empty places around the table. Still feeling rather wrung out from his emotional meltdown the night before, Harry was content just to grab the food as it was passed to him and keep quiet. It was such a relief to not be the center of attention.

A plate of sandwiches was shoved brusquely into his line of sight. He glanced up to find Ginny holding it and suddenly his vision tunneled. Nothing else existed and he stared at her, unable to help it. It was the first time he’d really seen her since the morning after the Battle, and a whole plethora of emotions slammed into him at the sight. His mouth gapped open rather stupidly, and his hand refused to reach out and grasp the plate.

“Would you like a sandwich, Harry?” asked Ginny rather frostily.

Harry’s stomach lurched at the tone and his gaze faltered. “Erm…yeah, thanks,” he muttered, finally forcing a hand to move and take the plate from her. He gulped slightly and looked away, piling several more sandwiches on his plate than he really wanted just to have something to look at other than Ginny. 

All through the meal, he could feel her brown eyes on him, boring into him like one of the drills his uncle used to make. It was unnerving and he found it made it difficult to eat. Finally, unable to take it anymore, he asked to be excused and hurried upstairs. A quick stop by the loo and then he planned to sequester himself in Ron’s room until he’d worked out how to speak to Ginny and explain everything without getting himself blasted to bits. 

*****

“So.”

Harry jumped, colliding with the bathroom door he was still pushing open and jerked his head up at the unexpected voice. Ginny was leaning casually against the wall across from the bathroom, arms folded and eyebrows raised as she gazed pointedly at him.

“Erm…” he stuttered, his command of the English language apparently deserting him. 

“Erm?” she repeated. “You don’t speak to me for days and then ‘erm’ is the best you can do?”

Harry swallowed thickly. 

“Where were you going?” asked Ginny, not giving him a chance to speak.

“To…uh… To…”

“Hide,” she finished with a small shake of her head. “From me. Don’t deny it; you know I’m right.”

Harry sighed. She’d always been perceptive, and with him she seemed to have the uncanny ability to see right through him, read every thought and intent without him having to say or do anything. “Yeah, you’re right. I was gonna go try and figure out what to say to you, Ginny.”

“You could have tried ‘Hi, Ginny. It’s nice to see you.’”

“I thought about it, but I figured that might get my head bitten off, or start World War III.”

Now it was Ginny’s turn to sigh. “I’m not going to bite your head off, Harry.”

That gave Harry pause and he couldn’t think quite what to say. He stalled by closing the bathroom door behind him and leaning back against it. Finally, he blurted out, “But aren't you, uh, mad at me?”

“Yes,” Ginny answered simply. “But...”

Harry desperately tried to keep his focus, staring at the girl he'd dreamt about non-stop for the past year. “But what?”

Ginny glanced at him then looked away, down the hall to where the afternoon sun was streaming in the window. “But you're not the only one who's changed, Harry. I've had what you might call a perspective adjustment in the last week. Between you…the Battle…Fred…” 

Harry’s heart lurched at those words and he looked down at his shoes. “Fred,” he mumbled. He took a deep breath and hurried on, not daring to look at her. “Gin, I...I know...it's my fault. All of it, and I’m so sorry! I never meant – ” 

A small sound escaped her, rather reminiscent of a growl, and he broke off quickly, looking up. Ginny was finally really looking at him, that patented Weasley glare boring holes in his head as she stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips. Harry took just a moment to wonder if that stance could possibly be hereditary... 

“Harry James Potter, that's not what I meant and you know it.”

Harry was at a loss. “But...Fred almost died. And you were thrown in the thick of things. And…Merlin, Ginny, I can’t say what I mean. I'm just making a mess of things. I feel like Ron...”

Ginny actually smiled a little at that. “Probably the company you keep,” she suggested. “And at least Ron got a clue, didn't he,” she muttered. 

Harry wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to hear that last part, but he let out a small laugh despite himself. “Yeah, I reckon he did, didn't he.” He paused then and ran a hand through his hair, trying to wrap his tongue around all that he needed to tell this wonderful girl, but when he finally figured it out they spoke at the same time.

“Ginny, there's just too much too say – ”

“Look, Harry – ”

They smiled again and he gestured for her to go first.

“I guess what I'm trying to say is this,” said Ginny, her face growing serious. “Yes, I'm mad at you. Yes, I haven't quite forgiven you for running off and leaving me to wonder for TEN MONTHS what was happening with you. Were you alive? Okay? Had you been captured and they were hurting you? Did you have food, somewhere to stay? And then trying to make me stay in that bloody room during the battle? What am I, twelve?”

Harry interrupted at that. He couldn’t help it. “No. Ginny, I know you're not a child. But do you have any idea what I felt like when I saw that killing curse sail by your head?”

“Do you have any idea what I felt like when I watched Hagrid carry you out of that forest!” Ginny shot back, eyes flashing.

Harry's head sank.

“I thought you were dead, Harry!” cried Ginny, voice rising. “I thought you were gone, and all those dreams I'd dared to let myself have? They were dead, too!”

“Ginny, that's...that's why I've been putting this off. I...I felt my life slip away when Bellatrix nearly killed you. Then I thought of what must've gone through your head when you saw me... But I had to do it, Ginny. I had to!”

“I know. That's part of why I love you. And why I'll get around to forgiving you. Between the Battle, and Fred dying and coming back, and you doing the same… Well, I’ve learned that life’s too short and unpredictable to hold grudges over silly things.”

Harry felt the slimmest flicker of hope build in his chest. “Forgive me?”

“Don't get too excited, Potter. You’re not completely off the hook yet. I am a Weasley, you know.”

Harry heard her, but his brain ignored it. It was a little hung up on something else she’d said that he’d at first missed. “You love me?” he asked, wide-eyed.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Were you dropped on your head as a child?”

He let his wry grin bubble to the surface. “You haven't met the Dursleys yet, have you? I probably was,” he said with a laugh, then sobered. “Do you...do you really love me, Gin?”

Ginny gave an exasperated sigh and rolled her eyes. “Yes, Harry, I really do love you. Would I have stuck around these last seven years waiting if I didn't, you git?”

Harry felt as if he'd been struck by a bludger to the head, or lightening. He was stunned, and suddenly words just started rushing out of his mouth, words he’d longed to say for years. “Gin...Ginny, I... There wasn't a day that went by I didn't think of you, dream of you, your eyes, your lips. Ginny, I love you more than life itself!”

Ginny looked at him for a second and then, completely to his surprise, threw back her head and laughed. 

Harry felt his courage falter and his smiled wobbled. He was pouring his heart out to her and she laughed? What had he done wrong? This wasn’t what was supposed to happen… 

“Oh, Harry,” she chuckled. “You just spent the last ten months living in a tent, with my brother, on the run from Death Eaters, and you're trying to tell me you thought of me each and every day? Ten months without speaking to me and now only five minutes into our first conversation you've worked your way up to my eyes and my lips?” She had to stop to fight back a burst of giggles. “Fred and George gave you a copy of that bloody book, didn't they?”

Harry felt his cheeks flush instantly. “Err…” he stammered, thoroughly embarrassed. “Well, Ron did, actually.” _She’d READ it?_ his brain was screaming, suddenly feeling very exposed, as if he’d just been asked to give a speech to the Ministry in his underwear. Merlin’s pants, the girl knew everything!

Ginny laughed again. “Men,” she muttered, shaking her head. “Well, Harry, here's something they didn't cover in that book. Talk is cheap.” And she pulled him over and planted her lips on his.

Harry gasped, his glasses going askew. For a moment, his head spun, and then his brain kicked into gear as he realized the girl of his dreams was snogging the heck out of him, and he dug his hands into her fiery locks, returning the favor. 

The sudden sound of applause filled the air around them, and Harry and Ginny jerked apart, turning as one to look down the stairs. Bill, Charlie, and Percy all stood there, huge grins on their faces as they clapped to bring down the house. “’Bout time,” muttered Charlie, shaking his head.

Harry stepped back from Ginny. “Peeping Merlins,” he moaned, turning three shades of crimson.

“Like living in a fish bowl,” agreed Ginny, but she was smiling.

Harry looked down at her brothers, hoping they weren’t about to tear him limb from limb. Then he glanced back at the amazing witch in his arms and decided he didn’t care.

“Oh, do carry on and don't mind us,” urged Bill, winking.

So Harry, having vowed a while back to stop being so stubborn and start listening to good advice, did.


	6. Some Rain Must Fall

**Chapter 5: “Some Rain Must Fall”**

_“Into each life some rain must fall, some days must be dark and dreary.”_

_\- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

*****

“This is hopeless! We’re never going to find them!” cried Hermione, slumping onto a park bench and pulling her jacket tight around her, the very picture of misery.

“Hermione, you know you don’t mean that,” said Ron gently, sitting beside her. Tentatively, he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her toward him, still marveling that she allowed it. “We’ll find them, I promise.”

“How do you know that, Ron? How can you be sure?” she asked, her voice laced with desperation and pain. 

“Because you’re you,” said Ron simply. “You’ve never failed to find what you really wanted before.”

Hermione gave a little hiccup of a sob and turned her face, burying it in Ron’s jumper. After only a moment’s hesitation, Ron reached up and pulled her close, running his hand softly down her hair as her tears really started to fall in earnest. He wasn’t very good at this sort of thing, but Hermione wasn’t objecting so he hoped he might be getting better at it.

The truth was they really weren’t doing so well in their search for Hermione’s parents. Just _getting_ to Australia had been tricky. After taking the ferry to France, they’d worked their way through Europe by moving from one Apparation Point to the next. Even at the top of his game, Apparation had never been Ron’s forte. With the Battle of Hogwarts not even a week behind them and neither one of them having taken time to really stop and rest yet, he found each jump harder and harder. By the time they left Europe and moved on to India, he was completely exhausted. An Apparation jump to another continent across a very large ocean was beyond him at the moment and he knew it. That left them with only a few options: pay for an International Portkey to Australia and all the legal fees that went with it or pay for Muggle transportation instead.

Money. Somehow it always boiled down to money, and neither one of them were exactly rolling in it at the moment. Hermione had completely exhausted her savings during their ten months on the run, and Ron had never had any savings to begin with. Harry would have gladly given them the contents of his entire vault if they needed it, but he was currently banned from even setting foot in Gringotts, let alone accessing his accounts. Ron figured he and Hermione would just have to wing it, as usual, but before they’d left, Charlie and George had pulled him aside and given him a bag of Galleons, leaving him shocked and deeply moved. He tried to protest but they’d forced it into his hands, claiming their rights as his older and wiser brothers to look after him and pound him into the floor if he didn’t. They’d do it, too. 

He took the money.

But that didn’t mean he was unaware of what he was taking. He was quite certain that they had probably just handed him all the money they had. The twins hadn’t been able to go to work for weeks which left their cash flow rather limited, and Charlie, the only Weasley who’d actually been able to maintain his job in the time leading up to the Battle, didn’t exactly rake in the Galleons as a dragon keeper. Humbled, he’d carefully pocketed it, never more proud to be a Weasley.

And they’d needed it. In the end, they’d had to pay for the Portkey. It got them safely to Australia, but they used more than half their money doing it and they hadn’t even started their search.

Completely exhausted, they’d immediately found the wizarding district of Sydney and checked into the cheapest hotel they could find. There’d been a brief moment of embarrassment and uncertainty when confronted by the clerk with the question of one room or two, but it was funds, or the lack thereof, that ended up making that call. They compromised: one room, two beds. They both knew their fledgling relationship wasn’t ready for a leap that big yet. 

Still, Ron’s face had burned rather brightly as the clerk winked cheekily at him and handed over the key. Hermione just rolled her eyes.

“Honestly, Ron,” she muttered, shaking her head as they climbed the stairs with their bags, “have you forgotten that we did just spend ten months living in the same tent? I think I can trust you to stay in the same room as me without worrying you’re going to ravish me in my sleep.”

Ron was very glad he was walking behind her when she’d said that; if she’d seen his expression she would have read his thoughts like one of her beloved books and he would have been sleeping in the hall.

They’d started searching bright and early the next morning, far too early in Ron’s humble opinion, but he didn’t complain. He simply allowed Hermione to drag him blinking owlishly to the Australian Ministry and kept his thoughts to himself. He could hardly blame Hermione for her anxiety; they were searching for her _parents_ after all.

Gaining entry to the Ministry via a letter of introduction from Kingsley, Ron figured they’d be done with their task by noon and sharing drinks with Hermione’s memory-restored parents over dinner. Seriously, how hard could it be to find two people?

Apparently, it was bloody hard. The Australian Ministry had no records of a Wendell or Monica Wilkins entering the country at all. Memory modification spells, especially ones as intricate and thorough as those Hermione had used, usually left magical traces behind. Magical governments the world over used these to keep a distant, unobtrusive eye on people with modified memories, to make sure things remained as they should. But Hermione, fearing for her parents’ lives, had done such a powerful and perfect spell it was completely untraceable. It was bloody brilliant, as the Ministry workers said over and over as they questioned Hermione, their awe growing by the minute for the young witch standing in front of them.

Ron’s chest had swelled with pride as he listened. That was his Hermione, all right. He wouldn’t expect anything less from one of her spells. Yep, bloody brilliant…too bad it was now also bloody inconvenient.

Magic being useless, Hermione swept him off to the Muggle library the next morning. They’d practically lived there for the last few days, Hermione ensconced in tombs of Government records or spending hours staring at one of those kerputers using some sort of invisible Muggle net, while Ron felt extremely useless as he sat around trying to offer support and not put his foot in his mouth by talking about magical things while surrounded by Muggles. It was probably helpful for their small amount of Galleons that she was usually so engrossed in her tasks she forgot everything else, including food, but it had been murder on Ron’s stomach. He’d done his best to be patient and ignore the rumblings, until eventually Hermione had looked up and seen the pained, puppy-dog expression on his face and agreed to stop for lunch, or dinner, or whatever the closest meal had been.

That was four days ago and they were no closer to their object than they had been when they arrived. Their money was swiftly running out and Hermione’s spirits were sinking lower and lower. As Ron now sat on the park bench and cradled her sobbing form in the chilly Autumn air, he felt extremely helpless. He wished with all his heart he could just wave his wand and make all her pain go away, but he couldn’t. He wasn’t Harry – strong enough to save a whole world. He wasn’t the twins – blessed with the ability to always say the right thing to cheer someone up. He wasn’t even Hermione – brilliant and clever and able to think herself out of anything. He was just Ron – impulsive, hot-headed, foot-constantly-in-his-mouth Ron.

“Hermione?” he said after a while when her tears had slowed slightly.

With her face pressed to his chest, he couldn’t make out her response as it was muffled by his jumper.

“Hermione,” he said again, gently pulling her head up and forcing her to look at him. Her face was rather red and blotchy and tears still streaked down her cheeks.

“You can do this,” he said firmly, ducking his head to keep eye-contact when she tried to look away. “I know you can.”

“It’s impossible, Ron!” she hiccupped. 

“It’s also impossible to infiltrate the Ministry, or break into a vault in Gringotts and get out alive, and I seem to remember a certain witch masterminding both of those successfully,” said Ron pointedly.

“This is different, Ron!” she snapped, brushing harshly at the tears on her face and sitting up straighter.

Ron smiled slightly to himself; that was more like his Hermione.

“Yeah, I know. No one’s trying to kill us this time.”

“Ron!” Hermione wailed, the ghost of a smile showing through her tears. “There are thirty-three Monica Wilkins in Australia! And fifty-six Wendells!”

Ron shrugged. “We’ve had worse odds.”

Hermione plowed on, not even listening. “This is _Australia_! Not just a country to search, a whole continent!”

“Then we start at one end and work our way through it until we find the right Wendell and Monica.” Ron’s tone was firm and determined.

“We’re running out of money and we don’t know anyone!”

“So I’ll get a job,” said Ron seriously. He put his hands gently on Hermione’s shoulders and forced her to calm down and look at him. “And we don’t need to know anyone; we have each other. Hermione, we came here to find your parents and I’m not letting you give up until we do. Whether it takes us two weeks or two years, I’m staying.”

She stared at him for a moment, her expression unreadable, until finally, she sat up and straightened her hair and jacket. She took several deep breaths, visibly calming herself, and then nodded firmly. Her usual determination back, she stood to gather up her bag, but Ron reached out and took her wrist, pulling her back down onto the bench beside him. 

He stared at her for a long time. He couldn’t help it; his mouth seemed unable to function. She was so fierce and loyal and brilliant and beautiful… He’d wasted so much time, convinced she could never see him as he wanted her to, or even if she did he could never be good enough for her. Heck, he still wasn’t good enough, but he was sure gonna try to be.

“What?” she asked, looking at him with puzzlement when he didn’t speak.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” he blurted suddenly, well aware of the blood rushing to his ears. 

“What?” she repeated, this time in shock.

“Y’know, officially.” 

“You’re asking me this now?” she said incredulously, her eyebrows climbing her forehead.

“I’m a Weasley. We’ve never been big on timing,” he said with a shrug. “Besides,” he added, “you snogged me for the first time in the middle of the biggest battle in fifty years…”

She stared at him a moment longer, long enough that Ron was starting to wonder if he’d really done it this time, crossed that line and messed things up for good. Then, finally, she responded.

“Yes, Ronald Weasley,” she said, shaking her head and letting her radiant smile break through the worry and sorrow on her face. “I would love to be your girlfriend. Y’know, _officially_.”

“Yes!” cried Ron, punching the air and grinning like a wildcat. 

“So,” said Hermione, eyeing him with a shrewd and knowing grin. “Does this mean you’ve just won a bet with Harry?”

“What? No!” cried Ron, highly affronted. “How could you even think such a thing?”

Hermione rolled her eyes and looked ready to launch into some speech about boys and such that Ron really didn’t want to sit there and listen to. He did the only thing he could think of to stop her – he kissed her.

And as they walked away from the bench a good ten minutes later, ready to start their search again, he vowed never to tell her about that bet with Charlie…

*****

With a weary sigh, Harry sank into the hospital chair, wishing it was softer. After the last week he was convinced that there was some universal law that hospital chairs must be as uncomfortable as possible.

“Long day?” 

Harry looked up at George’s question and nodded.

“Kingsley had us out beating around in the Moors all day on the trail of some elusive Death Eaters,” said Charlie with a yawn of his own as he sank into another chair.

“Any luck?” asked Fred from where he sat carefully propped up in his bed.

Harry started to shake his head then remembered the bandages still covering the twin’s eyes and answered instead. “No. Gits managed to stay one step ahead of us the whole time.”

“Lucky for them,” said Ginny dryly. “I’d run for it, too, if I heard ‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ was coming after me.”

“The way we hear it,” cut in George with a rather wry grin, “‘The-Boy-Who-Lived’ has been coming after you all week.”

The room erupted in chuckles from her brothers as Ginny reached out and smacked George. Harry joined in their laughter, but he still couldn’t stop the slight flush that crept onto his face. He chose to glance around in the hopes of avoiding a comment on that particular topic.

The little room was practically bursting with Weasleys. Bill leaned against the windowsill behind the chair Charlie sat in, both looking tired and dirty from a day spent chasing rogue Death Eaters. Ginny perched carefully on the edge of Fred’s bed while George sat in the chair at the head of it, never out of arm’s reach of his twin. George still hadn’t left his brother’s side long enough to go home to the Burrow, but he was at least taking better care of himself. He was wearing fresh clothes, had obviously showered and shaved, and the dark circles under his eyes were starting to fade.

In the bed that was the center of everyone’s attention sat Fred. The breathing charm had been removed several days ago and the twin was relishing in his ability to talk again, even if it was rather painful for him. Harry knew he’d absolutely hated the forced silence, especially with his sight also blocked by the bandages he still wore wrapped around his eyes. Just yesterday the Healers had, after a rather lengthy examination, given the young wizard permission to sit up for short periods of time. The internal damage wasn’t yet healed; the Killing Curse and resulting Petrification had slowed that process drastically, but it was on the mend. The shimmering Shield Charm on his horribly bruised chest remained, as did the bandages on his left wrist and around his head, but Harry had to admit that he looked much better gingerly sitting up in bed and talking. He was much more like the Fred Weasley Harry was used to seeing. He stared at his friend from where he sat in a chair on the far side of the bed, hoping the image of an alive and joking Fred would eventually push the image of a broken Fred with vacant eyes lying still on the floor of the Great Hall from his mind.

“Where’s Fleur?” Harry heard Ginny ask her oldest brother as he shook himself out of his thoughts and clued back into the conversation going on around him.

“Madam Maxime asked for her help with something at the Ministry this afternoon. I think Kingsley’s got Percy in on it as well. They said they’d meet us back at the Burrow for dinner later.”

“And you’re gonna smuggle me some of that dinner back here, right, Bill?” asked Fred.

“Sorry, little brother. Don’t think I’m authorized for a covert mission quite that large.”

“Aw, please!” begged Fred, his voice giving away his teasing. “Charlie?” he tried, appealing to his next oldest brother. 

“Nope,” said Charlie with a grin. 

“Heartless traitors,” Fred muttered. “This hospital food is gonna kill me!”

“What food?” laughed Charlie. “I thought you were still limited to Nutritional Potions?”

“Exactly my point!” the twin cried. “Have you tasted that stuff? It comes in only three flavors: gross, disgusting, and puke-a-licous!”

Harry snorted with laughter at that; he couldn’t help it. It was just such a _normal_ thing for Fred to say. He’d never experienced this before, this comfortable, sibling banter and he couldn’t help drinking it in, despite the setting.

Fred heard his snort and turned his head in Harry’s direction. “Find my Torture by Tonic funny, do you, Mr. Potter?”

Harry didn’t answer; he was trying not to break out in real laughter. Instead, he dug around in the pocket of his jeans for a moment and came up with a slightly crusty, rather lint covered toffee. He stood and reached across Fred, lightly slapping it into the twin’s good hand. “There,” he said graciously as he sat back down. “Desert’s on me.”

Stunned silence filled the small room for a moment before it broke into roaring laughter. They were laughing so hard no one noticed the door open until Mr. and Mrs. Weasley stepped into the room, followed by Fred’s Healer.

“What’s going on in here?” demanded Mrs. Weasley, hands gravitating to her hips. “Fred is supposed to be resting quietly.”

“Fred is bored to death of resting quietly and rather enjoying the company of his brothers and sister, Mum,” answered Fred with a grumpy frown, and Harry felt a strange warmth spread through his chest as he realized Fred had included him in the term “brothers.”

Before she had a chance to reply to her son’s comment, the Healer stepped suddenly around her and up to the bed. “Who gave you that?” he asked, snatching the sweet from Fred’s open hand. Instantly, five fingers pointed straight at Harry, who cringed sheepishly and tried to disappear into his chair.

“I was just teasing him,” he hurried to explain, throwing his hands up in the air in surrender. “Given how long it’s been in my pocket, he’d be barmy to actually eat it! And thanks for the support, guys,” he added to the others.

The Weasley clan laughed again and Harry got the distinct feeling they rather enjoyed seeing him squirm. The Healer glared at him a moment longer, then shook his head and turned back to his patient, muttering something that sounded vaguely like “early retirement.” He fussed over the injured twin for a few minutes while the Weasley parents found chairs, Mrs. Weasley looking very much like she wanted to be the one doing the fussing. 

From his spot on the far side of the bed, Harry watched curiously as Fred won a small argument with his Healer. The Healer wanted him to lie back down, telling him he needed rest. Harry secretly agreed; what he could see of his friend’s face looked tired and strained from the effort of hiding his pain, but Fred wouldn’t do it. He wanted to sit up while his family was there. He promised he’d lie back down after the Healer had delivered his news.

“Shall we get on with this, then?” asked Fred brightly as the Healer stepped back, shaking his head again.

“Yeah, what’s up?” asked Charlie. “Mum just said we were all supposed to meet here.”

“I asked that you all come,” the Healer responded quickly. “We need to discuss Mr. Weasley’s recovery. There are some issues that you, as his family, need to be aware of.”

A rather sobering mood fell over the room and everyone shifted slightly, giving the Healer their full attention.

“I’m sure I don’t need to remind any of you how extremely lucky this young man is to be alive today, or how extensive his injuries were and still remain.”

Harry shuddered as he listened, stealing a glance at his friend to again try and push unwanted memories from his mind.

“Mr. Weasley’s internal injuries were so grievous that they would have killed him instantly if not for the Petrification, but that Petrification has also caused problems. It has slowed his ability to heal and interfered with the spells and potions we normally use to correct such injuries swiftly. We’ve had to delve into rather uncharted waters with his case, using spells much stronger and longer-lasting than we like to.”

“But he’ll be okay, right?” asked Ginny suddenly.

The Healer paused for a moment and looked at her, his face softening slightly at the worry on her face.

“Yes, my dear, he’ll be okay. I suspect in a month or so your brother will be up and about and giving you the usual grief, if at a slightly slower pace. But he’ll have to be careful for a while, you all will. That’s what I needed to speak to you all about. The spells we had to use to put this young man back together again were so strong, and so unorthodox, they’ve rarely been used before. We know very little about how they react to other magic, especially over the long term. It’s one of the reasons we’ve allowed his broken wrist to heal the Muggle way; no point in exposing him to more magic than is needed.”

Harry looked at Fred’s left wrist, noticing for the first time that it seemed to be immobilized underneath the creamy bandages that wrapped it.

“So this is what it boils down to,” continued the Healer. “Mr. Weasley,” he said, addressing Fred first, “in order to insure that the healing spells we’ve placed on you continue uninterrupted and without any nasty or unforeseen side-affects, you must avoid using any magic for at least two months. You can, however, still use magical objects as long as you are not performing the magic yourself. After two months, if we decide you are sufficiently healed, you can resume using light magic, but under no circumstances should you use or be exposed to strong magic for at least nine months. It could cause the spells that are literally holding your insides together right now to fail. Do I make myself clear?”

Looking unusually sober, Fred gulped and nodded. “No magic – got it.”

Satisfied, the Healer turned back to the rest of them in the room. “It’s also going to be important to limit his exposure to magic for some time, especially strong magic. That’s where you all come in. It will take the combined effort of the whole family to help him get through this and insure everything goes as it should. You’ll all have to be careful to limit your use of magic around Mr. Weasley for a while. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” said Bill at once. “We’ll do whatever it takes.”

Everyone in the room either echoed Bill’s statement or nodded enthusiastically. Harry, knowing how magical life at the Burrow was, knew that wasn’t going to be an easy task, but he also knew they were Weasleys – for one of their own they’d all have willingly and without hesitation given up magic completely if it had been needed.

“Very good. I figured as much,” said the aged Healer, smiling for the first time. He quickly began to describe for them in more detail what they could expect from the next few weeks and months, exactly what kinds of magic could safely be performed dependant on how close Fred was or the strength of the spell, and a dozen other rather complicated instructions. Harry listened carefully, determined to do everything he possibly could to help out this family that had welcomed him as though he were one of their own. 

“What about his eyes?” said George suddenly, speaking up for the first time and interrupting the Healer’s lecture. “Why haven’t you mentioned them and why are the bandages still on.”

Harry watched as the smile slid instantly from the man’s face and his shoulders sagged. He sighed before speaking. “I was just about to remove the bandages, actually, but…”

“But what?” prodded Mrs. Weasley, sitting forward on her chair and literally radiating worry. Harry again stole a glance at Fred who had been remarkably quiet through all this discussion of his own health and couldn’t help noticing that the older boy was clutching the blanket with his good hand tightly, as if afraid to hear what was about to be said.

The Healer sighed again, then squared his shoulders and launched into what sounded like a speech he had prepared by heart. “Unfortunately, the highest concentration of the Killing Curse entered Mr. Weasley’s body through his eyes. It caused his retinas to detach and die, something we unfortunately didn’t notice in a timely fashion because of the Petrification and the multitude of other more life-threatening injuries. By the time it was discovered, it was too late to heal them completely.”

There was a collective intake of breath from the room at those words, but the Healer went on before anyone could speak. “And sadly that’s not all. After damaging the eyes themselves, the spell continued on into Mr. Weasley’s brain, settling around his optic nerve and causing massive swelling. That swelling has come down slightly, but it still remains, as do the remnants of the spell. We’ve tried everything, but bear in mind we’ve never seen a case like this in all the four hundred and eighty two years St. Mungo’s has existed. There’s simply nothing else we can do.”

“What are you saying?” asked Fred suddenly, his voice quiet as he clenched the blanket even tighter in his fist. 

“I’m saying,” said the Healer, turning to address Fred again, “that your eyes themselves are healed to the point you may remove the bandages, but sadly, it won’t make any difference. I’m horribly sorry, son, but your sight is gone. You’re blind now.”

“Forever?” blurted Ginny, her voice a high squeak and her eyes bright with tears she was trying desperately not to let fall.

“I can’t answer that,” said the Healer sadly, sounding very tired. “There’s a small chance the spell may dissipate and the swelling go down over time, but even if that does happen, his eyes are damaged to the point he would likely only receive roughly thirty percent of his vision back.”

Stunned silence filled the small room at those words. Harry couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. Fred Weasley, _blind_? That just couldn’t be possible! It was just so wrong!

Suddenly, with what sounded like a small, keening wail, Mrs. Weasley dissolved into tears on her husband’s shoulder. It shattered the spell of silence that had gripped the hospital room and sent the sobering news deep into the hearts of everyone there.

Abruptly, George pushed himself roughly to his feet, knocking over his chair in his haste, and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. As the echo of wood hitting wood mixed with the wails of Mrs. Weasley, the rest of the room looked toward Fred, sitting pale and still in his bed. 

“Well, bugger,” he swore softly, letting his head fall back against his pillow.

No one really knew what to say after that.


	7. Stumbling Blocks

**Chapter 6: “Stumbling Blocks”**

_“Smooth seas do not make skillful sailors.”  
\- African Proverb_

*****

Standing at the window of St. Mungo’s Tea Room, George stared through the magical glass at the rooftops of London spread out before him without really seeing them at all. In fact, he had no real recollection of actually arriving in that spot to begin with, let alone why he would want to look at a bunch of dingy roofs through the perpetual London fog. After listening to that bloody Healer throw Fred’s whole world out of kilter, though, he just knew he had to get out. Out of that room, out of the presence of his family, away from Fred and his desperate attempt to hide his fear… He just needed to be anywhere but there before the anger that was suddenly burning through him exploded.

He’d stormed from the room and through the halls, not even aware of where he was going. After who-knew-how-many slammed doors and harsh comments from Healers and orderlies, and perhaps one or two pieces of upturned furniture, he’d wound up here, standing in front of a window he didn’t even want to look out of, his arms crossed and a glare on his face that warned of severe harm to anyone who dared to approach him.

He was just so angry! After losing Fred and then miraculously getting him back, against all the odds, he’d been so sure he was prepared to handle whatever happened as a result but apparently that had been a lie. He’d heard that Healer utter the word _blind_ and just lost it. A million thoughts crashed into his brain with no way to stop them. Thoughts of never playing Quidditch together again, a pair of unstoppable Beaters… Realizing he’d never again glance at his twin and have whole conversations in an instant… No more catching each other’s eye to share a joke across a crowded room… 

How could the universe do that to Fred? Sentence him to a life without sight? After everything they’d done and been through? It was just so bloody unfair!

“Not much of a view.”

George whirled at the unexpected voice from beside him, ready to verbally decimate the speaker for intruding, only to stop short. 

“There are really much better windows around this place for brooding,” Augusta Longbottom continued, completely oblivious to George’s shocked expression and graciously ignoring the fact that he was gaping at her like a fish. “I could show you where they are, if you’re interested.”

She didn’t speak again, just stood there gazing out that blasted window instead of at him until he felt he had no choice but to say something in return.

“Look, Mrs. Longbottom, I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but I’m really not in the mood for company,” he said, re-crossing his arms and turning away slightly.

“That’s usually when you need it the most, lad,” she replied matter-of-factly.

George scoffed, pulling his arms tighter around himself. “What I need is a magical Do-Over switch,” he bit out, seeing Fred’s bandage-wrapped eyes in his mind.

“Wars don’t have Do-Over switches, George Weasley,” said Mrs. Longbottom bluntly, finally turning to look at him. “Wars don’t clean up nicely. They stop. They might be won. They might even be called victories, but they don’t have happy endings, not really.”

“Thanks,” said George bitterly. “If you’re trying to give me a pep talk, it’s bloody lousy.”

“I said wars don’t have happy endings, George. I never said life couldn’t.”

George turned and looked at the small, old woman next to him, frowning deeply and wondering exactly how a woman in such a ridiculous hat could be making him this peeved. And how she could sound so experienced at the same time.

“Let me guess, your brother’s lying in a bed somewhere in this hospital and you’ve just been told less than pleasant news about his future, correct?”

George didn’t answer, just glared. Mrs. Longbottom, however, seemed unfazed. “And now you’ve decided you’re entitled to stand here and curse the world because it’s been cruel and callous? Well, young man, I’ve some news for you: the world and most everyone in it doesn’t care one iota about your brother. So you’d best get over it.”

Her blunt words shocked the glare right off George’s face and he felt his anger roaring back, but the little woman went on before he could form a nasty enough reply.

“George,” she said, suddenly changing her tactic as she moved a little behind them to a table, “come here and sit down.” She gestured to a seat as she took one herself. George wanted to say no, in rather colorful language, but she’d said it in that tone of voice his mother used when it wasn’t a suggestion and somehow his feet just followed orders and carried him to the table.

“I know what you’re feeling, lad,” she said in a softer voice as he slouched petulantly in the chair.

“How could you?” he spat. He was being horribly rude, to someone he’d never even really spoken to before, but he honestly didn’t care. Fred was blind, would probably never see again, and this woman had the gall to intrude on his brood and then tell him she understood?

“Late one November night, several weeks after the horrible events that cost young Harry Potter his family, my son and his wife were home enjoying a rare evening alone. You-Know-Who had been defeated, at least we thought so at the time, and peace and safety had returned to our world after months of terror, horror and pain. Frank and Alice, Aurors both of them, had been in the thick of it for the entire War, and for the first time in months they’d planned a night off to spend together. I even offered to mind little Neville so they wouldn’t be interrupted.”

Mrs. Longbottom’s words were firm and measured, but there was no missing the undercurrent of sorrow they also carried. As she spoke, George found himself listening intently despite his best efforts. He’d always known Neville was raised by his grandmother, but he’d never seen the need to question why. Now he had the grim feeling he was about to find out. 

“They were supposed to arrive back at my house to retrieve Neville in the morning as I had other obligations the next day, but they were late. I was slightly annoyed, but it was the first alone time they’d had in almost a year so I tried to be understanding. The day dragged on, however, until after several hours of waiting, just when worry was really starting to set in, someone appeared at my doorstep: Alastor Moody, head of the Auror Department. He came to tell me there’d been another attack.”

She paused and looked right at him, deep into his eyes and George found he couldn’t look away. There, far beneath the surface, hidden behind the mask she allowed the world to see every day, George saw a well of great pain. He sucked in a breath in shock, recognizing it because it was exactly the kind of pain he was currently lost in.

“The War was over, George,” said Mrs. Longbottom quietly, still holding his gaze. “It had been for weeks! Everything was supposed to be safe once more. But here was the head of my son’s department standing on my porch and telling me how very sorry he was, that they’d catch the ones responsible if they had to chase them to the ends of the earth, that Frank and Alice had fought like heroes. And the truth was I didn’t care. I wanted to hex him, curse him with every nasty jinx I had ever learned, and then slam the door and pretend I hadn’t just had my son ripped away from me.”

“Who killed them?” asked George quietly, finding his own rage melting away. 

“Rodolphus and Bellatrix Lestrange, attacked them, with help from others,” replied Mrs. Longbottom. “Which reminds me that I really need to send my thanks to your mother, but that’s beside the point. You’ve misunderstood something, George. Frank and Alice weren’t killed. No, they’re still very much alive.”

“But then, why…?” stammered George, confused.

“They’re insane – tortured with the Cruciatus Curse to the point they lost their minds. They live here in the long-term ward now, which means I’ve spent many, many hours in this hospital as I’ve visited them.”

George straightened, really listening.

“George, I don’t know what they told you about your twin, what bad news you’re trying to deal with, but can I give you some advice from someone with a little experience? You may always feel like cursing the world, and you will always wish there was a way to, as you put it earlier, ‘do things over.’ But you also have to realize that’s never going to happen, which means you have a choice to make. You can live life forever brooding on the past, wishing for things that you cannot change and facing the world with that impressive rage you’ve got day after day. Or you can let it go and learn to live again. Wars might end, and with them many other things, but life doesn’t, not if you don’t let it. Yes, I wish every day that the attack on my son and his wife hadn’t happened, but I also thank the heavens each and every day that they’re still alive. Yes, they’re changed and different, not the same as they used to be, but Frank is still my son and Alice still my daughter-in-law – they’re still Neville’s parents. Just because things are different doesn’t mean I can’t still love them just as much, and I know they somehow understand that love. The same goes for you, George. Your brother’s alive, isn’t he?”

George nodded, finding himself for once in his life rather at a loss for words.

“And he’s still your brother, isn’t he, no matter what’s changed?”

He nodded again, feelings welling up inside his chest.

“Then why should any of the rest matter in the least?”

Traitorous tears George desperately didn’t want to let fall pricked the corners of his eyes and he looked away from Mrs. Longbottom, gazing instead back out the gloomy window. “Thanks,” he finally said after several long moments. “I reckon I needed to hear that.” 

A wrinkled, leathery hand reached out and patted his briskly – once, then twice – and then its owner stood, straightening her stunningly awful hat. “We’ll, I’m going to purchase a cup of the bilge this place likes to try and pass off as tea and then I really must be on with my visit. But, George, I meant what I said. Look me up if you want the secrets of the best places to have a good fit in St. Mungo’s. I’d be happy to share, one brooder to another.”

She left abruptly after that, not giving him a chance to think of a reply let alone utter it. He shook his head, standing and turning back to the window in almost the exact spot he’d occupied before the strange and unexpected interruption from the formidable little witch in the stuffed-vulture hat. His feelings and emotions were still a mess but something was different, the rage was gone. Disappointment, stunned disbelief, over-powering sorrow – those all remained, but there were other emotions stirring again as well.

Almost without thought, he reached a hand up to the hole where his left ear used to be, fingering it absently. It still pained him occasionally, and he’d noticed some hearing loss on that side, but not enough to bother anyone about. Compared to the loss Fred was facing it was miniscule, but still… They’d lost things before and survived. Perhaps they could manage this blow as well.

The fog outside lifted slightly and he had a clearer view of the city. It struck him that just looking out at those rooftops below was something Fred would never get to do again and suddenly, they didn’t seem so dingy and unimportant.

Those blasted tears were back, stinging his eyes, and he turned his back on the room in a half-hearted attempt to save some of his dignity. This wasn’t going to be easy, this blindness crap, and so much was going to change now, but he knew it was going to be a heck of a lot easier for him than for Fred. So, he was going to stand there until he got himself put back together again, and then he was going to go back to that room and start learning to be the eyes for two people.

*****

The door was old and solid, a hold-over and remnant from many years of history. Generations of magical leaders had sat behind its imposing presence. An ornate, golden plaque had been added to its surface in recent years.

Bill Weasley, fist poised in the air to knock, stared at that door, a grin creeping over his scarred face.

The ostentatious plaque had originally born the phrase “Pius Thicknesse: Minister of Magic,” but someone, using indelible ink, had improved on it. It now read “Prissy Thickhead: Former Minister of Magic, Current Dead Death Eater.” Directly underneath someone had taped a piece of parchment with a crude, handwritten sign on it that read “Office of Kingsley Shacklebolt: Interim Minister of Magic – Good luck catching him actually _in_ this room.”

Bill read it three more times, shaking his head as his smile grew. It was a silly, simple little thing but somehow very reassuring. Anyone of the several men who had sat in this office in the last few years would have made putting up a new gold sign on that door a top priority on their to-do list. The fact that Kingsley had more important things to do than get his name engraved in gold… It was about time they had a leader like that.

Still smiling broadly, Bill let his fist finish its journey and rapped loudly on the wooden door.

“Come in,” Kingsley’s deep voice rang out. 

Bill turned the knob and walked into the office, right into a glorious mess. Books and parchments were stacked in haphazard piles everywhere – on the desk, in the corners, spilling out of open drawers. Some of them reached to the ceiling. Bill accidentally brushed past one on his way in and it teetered alarmingly.

Kingsley looked up from the small clear space on his desk where he was working on something and swiftly pulled out his wand, firing a hasty spell at the traitorous pile. It quivered, but stayed standing.

“Filing cabinet explode?” asked Bill wryly, glancing around as his grin only continued to grow.

“You don’t even want to know,” sighed Kingsley, shaking his head.

“I like the sign,” added Bill, nodding over his shoulder as he shut the door behind him.

“Guess who’s responsible for that decorating touch?” prodded Kingsley, leaning back in his chair as his deep, resonate laugh filled the small room.

“I would have suspected Fred and George in a heartbeat if I didn’t know exactly where they’ve been since the Battle,” said Bill, curiosity spiking.

“Oh, it was a Weasley all right, just not the ones you’re thinking of,” chuckled Kingsley. “Your brother Percy did that.”

“Percy!” stammered Bill, shocked. “Percy Weasley? _Our_ Percy?” 

“Yes, your Percy,” said Kingsley, using his wand to clear a stack of crumbling folders off the only other chair in the room and gesturing for Bill to sit down. “His tribute to Fred, actually,” he continued, sobering. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve left it there, that and the fact I haven’t been in this building long enough to really worry about it yet. You’ll notice he still managed to get a subtle hint in there that I really ought to be spending a little more time in this office.”

Bill sat in the offered seat, his thoughts drifting to his family. Percy had been working to reconnect with them since the Battle, but Bill knew it wasn’t easy for him. There were years of issues and feelings that didn’t go away in one moment of elation and forgiveness. And their prodigal son and brother was still himself, still Percy; Bill knew he still very much felt like a square peg in their rather round family. He was living at the Burrow again, to help out and because he knew it was what their mum needed at the moment, and he’d made an effort to visit Fred regularly, but Bill could still see how uncomfortable and out-of-place his brother often felt. And how guilty, especially around Fred. Heck, he could almost give Harry a run for his money in the guilt department. At this rate, they’d have to book the both of them for counseling before too long. Still, seeing Percy’s extremely visible tribute to his brother touched Bill greatly.

“I always knew he had more Weasley in him than he liked to admit,” said Bill softly. “I’ll be sure to tell Fred. He’ll love it.”

“I heard about Fred’s eyes, Bill. I’m very sorry,” said Kingsley seriously. “How’s he doing?”

“I think he’s still in shock, actually; we all are really. This is going to take a lot of adjustment, and I’m not sure it’s really sunk in yet.”

“You know, if there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask. This world and the Order owe a lot to the Weasley family.”

“Thanks,” said Bill, grateful for the offer, knowing it came from Kingsley as a friend and not an obligatory statement because he was Minister.

“I still wish I didn’t have to drag you all back out into the thick of it again so soon,” continued Kingsley wearily. “You should be with Fred right now, not out risking your lives once more.”

“We knew what we were signing up for and you know it, Kingsley. And I seem to recall Weasleys in the Order even before you, Mr. Minister,” said Bill, giving the older man a slightly cheeky grin. “Besides, you didn’t drag us into anything, we volunteered. We’re in this for the long haul and we’ll all take a break once we know the danger’s really gone.”

“Well, I will say this then – people sometimes hint there’s more Weasleys than should be allowed, but I wish I had two dozen more. We’d be lost without the lot of you.”

“Be careful what you wish for, Minister,” laughed Bill. “You do realize I have five brothers, all old enough to marry now… In a couple years you could be _swimming_ in Weasleys.”

“Is that an announcement?” Kingsley shot back, returning the grin as he leaned forward on his desk. “Should I be sending congratulations to Fleur?”

“What? No!” said Bill hastily. “Not yet, at any rate.”

Kingsley laughed again, the sound filling the room, and Bill thought perhaps he was enjoying this little break from all the worry of his new job to chat with an old friend. It didn’t last long, however, as he sobered rather quickly.

“So, what brings you here, Bill?” the Minister asked. “I noticed you haven’t been out there with us for the last few days. What’s going on?”

“I’ve actually come to ask for a little official help,” admitted Bill, leaning forward on the chair and getting down to business. “For Harry.”

Kingsley let out a sigh at the mention of the boy’s name. “Harry,” he said, something akin sadness in his voice. “If there’s anyone who deserves a break from this continued madness it’s that boy. I hate that I can’t give it to him but the truth is we need him out there. He’s good – bloody good – and I’m in no position at the moment to be choosy.”

“He wouldn’t take it even if you could give it to him, and you know that.”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it right. The boy has more Defense experience and skills than ninety-five percent of my Auror Corps, or what’s left of them at least, and a logical head on his shoulders to boot. I haven’t told him this, but I’d induct him into the Auror Corps tomorrow and waive the training, but I’m not sure that’s what he really wants...or needs,” he added after a moment.

“Honestly, Kingsley, he’s so lost right now I’m not sure he _knows_ what he wants,” answered Bill truthfully, thinking of the dark-haired boy who had become like another little brother to him. He knew Harry was hurting – his whole family could see it radiating off him like some sort of sorrowful pulse – and it was madding that they didn’t know what to do to help him. They did the only thing they could think of – surround him with family so he knew he wasn’t alone and keep a wary eye on him.

“What’s going on that you need my help for, then?”

“It’s Gringotts actually. I’ve tried every route and official string I can pull, but they’re being complete idiots about it.”

“About what?” said Kingsley with a frown.

“Harry’s accounts. They’ve locked them and banned Harry from accessing them, or even entering the bank. The kid can’t even withdraw a Knut.”

“What?” cried Kingsley, his eyes narrowing. “The hero of the wizarding world and they’ve barred him from entering?”

“It gets worse,” said Bill grimly. “They’re even considering legal action against him because of that break-in he pulled off to find the Horcrux, and being typical thick-headed, treasure-centered goblins they aren’t listening to a word I say in his defense. I’m doing the only thing I can think of that’s left to me – going over their heads.”

“What I want to know is why no one told me about this until now!” demanded Kingsley, standing and collecting his cloak from the top of a pile of what looked suspiciously like Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes products. With an inner grin, Bill decided not to tell. 

“Because he’s Harry!” he replied, shrugging his shoulders as he got to his feet as well. “He didn’t even come to me with the problem until three days ago. The kid’s been living out of his pack for almost a year; he figured a bit longer wouldn’t hurt and he didn’t want to bother anyone.”

“Has anyone ever bothered to tell that boy that it’s okay to need help? And to ask for it?” sighed Kingsley, shaking his head in frustration.

“You’ve met his relatives,” said Bill grimly. “I reckon you can figure that one out on your own.”

“Well, I reckon it’s about time this world started doing something for the boy who saved our collective posteriors,” said Kingsley, sounding more than a little menacing as he flicked out the light with his wand and moved through the piles to the door. 

“Couldn’t agree more,” replied Bill with a wide grin. “Should I inform my boss that Gringotts will be getting an official visit from the Minister of Magic today?”

“What? And ruin all the fun? No, I say let’s make it a surprise.”

*****

“…and I think we should try Apparating to Melbourne tomorrow,” said Hermione as she sat on the edge of her hotel bed, busily organizing her bag for the next day.

Ron gave a distracted mumble as he approached his bed with caution, only half listening to her.

“I’d like to take a look in their library…”

Wand raised warily in his right hand, Ron reached out with his left and jerked the pillow to the side, eyes focused for sudden movement.

Nothing.

“…just think it might be the sort of city my parents would gravitate to, y’know?”

Nerves on edge for battle, Ron reached out again and this time grasped the covers on his bed. He took a deep breath and then yanked them backwards, baring the sheets underneath.

Again, nothing.

“…have a wonderful university there, and Dad always liked to live close to…”

He paused, thinking hard. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they weren’t there, watching him. That bloody book had said they were elusive. He eyed the dark edge of the bed where the covers met the floor suspiciously, fighting the urge to back away. 

“Ron, are you even listening to me?” Hermione’s rather exasperated voice broke into his thoughts.

“Yeah, Melbourne, tomorrow. Got it,” he muttered distractedly, getting down on his knees slowly and forcing himself to approach the bed. He took a deep breath, then flipped the bed-skirt up and muttered a _Lumos_ at the space under the mattress. 

Still nothing. Well, almost nothing.

Ron reached out and picked up the Deluminator, eyeing it curiously. He didn’t remember packing it, but then he hadn’t really thought much about what he was shoving into his suitcase either. Good thing he’d looked down here, he thought as he pocketed it absent-mindedly. He would have hated to leave it behind.

So, they weren’t in the bed, and they weren’t under the bed. He was feeling a _little_ better, but still…

“Should we pack a lunch for tomorrow or…”

In the closet. That’s the one place he hadn’t checked yet, and it was dark and closed in, just like that book had said they liked. 

Face set, Ron walked toward the little closet, wand at the ready. He reached out and grasped the doorknob, counted to three silently in his head, and then yanked hard.

“Ronald Bilius Weasley! What in Merlin’s name are you doing?”

As the closet door banged loudly into the wall, Ron looked wide-eyed at his girlfriend. All three names definitely required his full attention.

“Um…”

Hermione just sat there, crossing her arms as she raised an eyebrow.

“Looking for spiders,” he mumbled.

“Spiders?” she repeated.

He nodded. “This ruddy country has at least a dozen of them that can kill you, y’know.”

“In the closet?”

“It said they like dark places!” he said, feeling the need to defend his actions.

“What said? Where have you been getting this information? You didn’t act like this last night, or any of the other nights we’ve been here?” asked Hermione, narrowing her eyes at him.

Ron mumbled something, looking at his shoes.

“I didn’t quite catch that, Ronald,” replied Hermione briskly. 

“From a book,” sighed Ron slightly louder, as if admitting to some horrible crime.

“A book?” said Hermione, surprised. “You? Reading?”

“Well, what else was I supposed to do, sitting in that bloody library day after day while you did brilliant and confusing stuff with that Muggle kerputer? Not like I’m any help to you! There was this book sitting there, facts about Australia… Wasn’t too big, had a lot of pictures…”

 _Nasty, full color, high magnification pictures_ , he couldn’t help reminding himself with a small shudder. It was the first time he’d been grateful Muggle pictures didn’t move.

“And this book told you there were spiders living in the closet?” she pressed, incredulously.

Ron shook his head, exasperated with Hermione and her refusal to get it. “No, Hermione,” he said rather grouchily. “It told me there are an insane amount of blasted spiders in this freaky country, and that the little buggers can show up anywhere! And guess what else I learned – most of them are poisonous to boot!”

Hermione sighed. “Did the book also tell you that no one’s died from a spider bite in Australia in years? That spiders are more scared of you than you are of them and would rather run away than bite you?”

 _More scared of me than I was of them?_ Ron thought with a scoff. _Not bloody likely_. “Says who?” he asked, crossing his arms and glaring at her.

“Says any number of official and educated sources,” replied Hermione. “So you can stop acting like there are miniature Death Eaters in our room that are going to jump out and get you.”

Personally, Ron would take Death Eaters over spiders any day. Death Eaters were large, they were generally easy to see, and they didn’t run across your face with no warning in the middle of the night.

“Ron,” said Hermione, a little softer and with less exasperation, “just go shower. And try not to use all the hot water this time.”

Giving a long-suffering sigh and not letting go of his wand, Ron closed the closet door and gathered up his pajamas. It was when he reached down for his comb that had fallen in the space behind the chair that he saw it. It was sitting there, calmly watching him, on the carpet just below the window.

He froze, unable to think, unable the breath, unable to move. All he could do was stare at it while its eight beady little eyes stared back, almost mocking him.

Suddenly, a hand holding one of his trainers descended through his field of vision, completely obliterating the little monster. He blinked rapidly for a few moments then stood up, face burning with embarrassment at his reaction. 

Shaking her head slightly, Hermione smiled at him. “Go shower, Ron. I’ll check the rest of the room while you’re gone. And for the record,” she said as she handed him the trainer she had just wiped off with a tissue, “a shoe makes a much better weapon against a spider than a wand. Just a thought.”

 _Not when they’re four feet tall_ , he felt like replying but didn’t. Instead, he picked his way to the loo, eyes never leaving the floor and wand still gripped between his fingers.

*****

Eyes glowing like embers from Hell, Voldemort lowered his wand and stepped away from the corpse. He turned toward him, an easy smile on his snake-like face.

“Are you ready to give up yet, Potter?” he asked calmly, pointing to the long form of Fred Weasley stretched out on the ground at his feet.

Harry’s mind was reeling, stunned by having just watched Voldemort slaughter one of his friends, but he forced himself not to betray his emotions. “No, Tom,” he said firmly, not lowering his own wand as he faced his enemy. “I’ll never give up.”

With a casual shrug, the Dark Lord gestured lazily toward one of his minions, who stepped forward and tossed a second body on the ground next to Fred’s. “What about now?” countered Voldemort calmly, pointing gleefully to the tiny form.

Harry’s heart stopped; he couldn’t breathe. Time itself seemed to freeze. _Ginny!_ That was _Ginny!_ He stared at her pale skin and long, brilliantly red hair. Saw her brown eyes, once so full of life and love, now vacant and empty. This was all wrong! This was not supposed to happen! She couldn’t be dead!

“NO!” he screamed. A jet of red light erupted from his wand, catching the Dark Lord square in the chest. But, then, it simply fizzled and disappeared.

Voldemort cackled.

“A Stun spell, Potter?” he taunted. “I killed your little girlfriend and her brother and all you can offer is a Stun spell? I expected so much more from the ‘Chosen One’. Shall I kill another? Your beloved blood-traitor side-kick perhaps?”

Rage, hot and savage, burned through Harry as he screamed a second spell, this time sending a blast of green light from the tip of his wand. With vindictive pleasure, he watched as Voldemort fell to the ground, his taunting laugh finally silenced. Panting, Harry stood there, reveling in the sight.

“You killed him, Harry,” said McGonagall sadly.

Startled, he jerked around to find himself surrounded.

“An Unforgivable, Harry,” said Lupin, shaking his head, disappointment in his eyes.

“At least I only killed the snake, Harry,” put in Neville.

“You’re a murderer now, Harry,” added Mr. Weasley. “You killed Tom, and Ginny, and Fred.”

“No, I didn’t kill them!” cried Harry, desperately holding back tears as he looked again to the bodies of his friends lying on the ground. “Voldemort killed them! I had no choice! I had to kill him or he would have killed the rest of you!”

No one answered and suddenly the rest of the Weasleys were gathered there, great disappointment in their eyes. As one, they turned their backs to him and began to walk away, not speaking.

“Wait! No, please come back! He killed Ginny! I didn’t have a choice!”

“Goodbye, Harry,” Mrs. Weasley called over her shoulder to him. “I won’t have a murderer living under my roof.”

“No! Please! Please don’t leave! I’m sorry! I’m sorry about Fred! I’m sorry about Ginny! Come back! I don’t want to be alone anymore! Please!”

The last scream still on his lips, Harry jerked up in bed, shaking and sweating. Chest heaving from the vivid nightmare, he sat there panting and trembling for several long minutes before he shoved the tangled covers off his legs and swung them to the floor. Fighting the desire to retch, he leaned forward on his knees and ran fingers through his sweaty hair as he fought to control his ragged breathing.

That was the third nightmare this week and definitely the most vivid so far. He’d thought his sleep might be uninterrupted now that he’d ejected Voldemort from his head, but apparently his own brain was perfectly capable of torturing him on its own.

Shakily, he got to his feet and moved to gaze out Ron’s window at the dark night below. Sleep wasn’t coming back anytime soon, not with him trembling like a leaf and still panting as though he’d run a footrace. He might as well put the time to good use planning moves for the long day of Death Eater chasing ahead of him.

Morosely, Harry wondered if winning was always supposed to make you this tired.


End file.
